


Disintegration

by unkissed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ableist Language, Abusive Relationships, Addiction, Adultery, Albius - Freeform, Angst, Angst and Feels, BDSM, Bondage, Cheating, Derogatory Language, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Harry Potter Next Generation, Homophobic Language, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Infidelity, Love Triangles, M/M, Muggle Jobs, Muggle Technology, POV Third Person, Post-Hogwarts, Quidditch, Scorbus, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Tragedy, Tragic Romance, jeddy, sex and angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-07 12:38:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 63,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4263558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unkissed/pseuds/unkissed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the way it all falls apart - in a cascade of tragedy and sex - when bonds of love begin to unravel, and the things that define us start to crumble.</p><p>In which James loses more than his ability to walk in a career-ending Quidditch accident, Teddy's kindness becomes detrimental to his relationship, Scorpius is deceived by the only person he ever really trusted, and Albus destroys everything when he gives in to his demons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. James

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter begins with a line from the song, "Disintegration" by The Cure.
> 
> Love and gratitude go out to my friend, muse, and partner in literary crime - ColorfulStabwound. Team WIP FTW!
> 
> The original characters Sebastian Wood, Duston Montague, and Alexa Montague belong to ColorfulStabwound. All other original characters were created by me.
> 
> I like to think of this story as a parallel universe to the timeline of my Teddy/James series The Color of Deception, and my Albus/Scorpius series Coevolution. 
> 
> Sometimes we can't help but destroy our OTP's.
> 
> This is an unfinished WIP, but I have outlined everything to the end and will continue to write it.

**~ 1: James ~**

****

**_“Dropping through sky_ **

**_Through the glass of the roof”_ **

 

_It’s cold._

This is James’ first thought upon regaining consciousness. He’s vaguely aware that he’s on the quidditch pitch of Estadio Santiago, having fallen from the sky. The cold is all encompassing, but not painful – it’s like being immersed in a bath that has lost its warmth, as opposed to being buried in snow.

Though the feeling of being shrouded in cold is not terribly uncomfortable, it _is_ quite alarming.  That’s because James is in Madrid at the height of a sweltering Spanish summer. Moments prior to being on the grass, James had remarked to himself how glorious it had felt to be up high on his broom, consorting with the sun, gleaming like a golden god, glistening with sweat. He’d felt invincible.

The cold evolves into pins-and-needles, which turns to numbness.  As the startling loss of sensation spreads from the base of his neck, all the way down his spine, the cascade of events that had led him here washes over him...

 

James is standing firmly on the pitch, straddling his broom, poised for action, facing off against a veritable Amazonian of a woman - Number six, Paloma Herrera, star chaser for Los Matadores de Marroquina. James loves this part – the few seconds before kick-off when he can mentally throw his opponents off their game with just a _look_ or some snide trash talk.

“Do you know the meaning of the name _Santiago_?” Herrera asks James, referring to the home stadium of Los Matadores. 

James shrugs.  “Don’t know.  Don’t care. It’s the name of the next place Puddlemere is going to thoroughly _own._ ”

“It means _Saint James_. It’s fitting, don’t you think? Because we’re going to destroy you, James Potter, while your screaming fans wet their panties and cry.”

James smirks with wry amusement and lasciviously eyes-up Herrera’s curvy, athletic form.  “Tell you what, sweetheart,” he drawls smoothly, “Should you somehow manage to make a holy martyr out of me, you can get on your knees after the match and pray to my cock.”

Before Herrera can retort, the referee blows the first whistle.  “I want a clean, concise game.  Let’s not drag this out. It’s hot as Hades today.” The second whistle is blown and the players take to the air.

The first game of the Quidditch International Championship semi-finals begins spectacularly.  Puddlemere United is ahead by one-hundred points, and many of the winning plays are executed by James himself, to the bolstering roar of his many adoring fans in attendance.

Number five, Carolina Aquino, third chaser, attempts to side swipe him, but James easily evades her.  Perhaps Aquino and her teammate had been anticipating this reaction, for James doesn’t even have a split second to quirk a smug grin before Herrera drops directly into James’ path at the exact moment he had swerved to avoid Aquino, and knocks him square off his broom.

James hears the shrill whistle of the referee calling Herrera’s foul as he tumbles towards earth.  The next few seconds tick by seemingly in slow motion.

He reaches for his wand in his boot to break his fall with a deceleration spell, but the handle gets caught on a buckle. Panic prickles the back of his neck as he struggles to pull his wand free. 

The referees don’t notice James’ predicament because they’re too distracted by the mid-air fistfight that has broken out between Wood and Herrera over that dirty play.  Later, James will have to thank Sebastian for avenging him, even if it meant punching the woman James had been lewdly goading before the match. 

But right now, James is only aware of the ground that is swiftly approaching.

When James meets the pitch, he feels his limbs buckle in entirely unnatural ways.  For a short but agonizing few seconds, pain sears through his entire body like fire. And then comes the cold and the blackness...

 

“Potter, can you hear me?  Can you see me?  Do you know where you are?”  The questions are hurled at him in swift succession as a blurred face blots out the sun above him.

The only answer James has comes out as a mangled cry.  “Fucking hell.” 

Healer Lim puts his hands on James’ shoulders and says, “Don’t try to get up.  You’ve had a nasty fall.”

But James can’t get up even if he wanted to. He realizes, with chilling alarm, that he can’t move his legs.

“No,” he wheezes, moving his mouth almost soundlessly with spirit-crushing dread, as his carefully constructed apathetic façade cracks and shatters, “No, no, no, NO!”  The panic over his paralysis is worse than the panic he felt while falling, and it wrenches an anguished lament from his aching lungs.

A team of healers descends upon him and hauls him off the pitch as he screams obscenities at everybody and nobody. He wants to strangle Herrera with his bare hands.  He wants to punch the paparazzi and their flashbulbs that explode like fireworks all around him. Soon, his anguished, tear stained face will be plastered on the cover of every newspaper throughout the wizarding world.

 

The next morning, The Daily Prophet proclaims, _Potter’s Puddlemere Days End, Not With a Bang, But With a Whimper_.


	2. Scorpius

 

**_“I leave you with photographs_ **

**_Pictures of trickery”_ **

 

Scorpius feels the _boom, click, boom, click_ of the drum beat deep inside his chest. It’s the driving, steady pace of an empowered gait – the tempo of an eager heartbeat – the surging pulse of desire – the staccato rhythm of sex and the fluid cadence of fashion.

He takes a deep breath in the seconds before he steps onto the runway and tastes the adrenaline on his tongue as the rush of anticipation and the prickle of anxiety threaten to unravel his tightly wound resolve. He turns around a sharp corner and the harsh lights are hot on his face, but he welcomes their warmth, for everything about this scene is cold and artificial.  He finds a nameless, hard face seated in the audience at the end of the runway, sets it as a destination point, and single-mindedly walks towards it, _stomp, stomp,_ stomping with privilege and power and grace. 

His objective – to seduce the critics’ acclaim, to sell the sex that is sewn into the seams of the garments he wears, to exude confidence and swindle the consumer into believing they want him. S _trut, strut, strut,_ he walks the runway with aristocratic dominion, as if daddy owns it, and certainly Draco Malfoy has thrown enough money at these designers to justify his entitlement. He pauses near the foot of the stage, strikes a choreographed pose that is calculated to appear casually aloof, and stares through every face that is appraising him.  He does not permit himself to break form by making eye contact, not even in his jaunty retreat.

It’s not until later, when he and the other boys crowd around a screen to watch the playback, that Scorpius sees what he has inspired. He watches what happens to the audience in his wake - the cameras focusing on him, fingers scurrying quickly over touch screens, pens scrawling hurriedly across little notebooks, the whispers between fashionistas in dark glasses. 

At the end of the day, when the photos hit the blogs and the online magazines, one wonders who is wearing whom – is Scorpius wearing Jil Sander or Tom Ford or Burberry? Or is the design house wearing Scorpius?

  

By the time London Fashion Week and Scorpius’ first season on the runway come to a close, he has walked four of the seven major menswear shows, and has earned a name for himself in the fashion world. _The Ice Prince._   Ask the fashion writers and sartorial bloggers how he got that name, and they’ll tell you it’s Scorpius’ crystalline pallor, his regal bone structure, his ice-hewn features, and his severe, glacial blue stare. 

But ask any of the other boys backstage, and they’ll tell you how Scorpius really earned that name.   They’ll say he’s got a bit of a chilly personality around his competition and doesn’t deign himself to consort with the other models.  After all, he had already garnered notoriety and media-darling-status as a certain rock star’s enigmatic lover before he ever stepped foot on a catwalk.  If you wheedle the other boys while they’re chain smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and drinking free-flowing champagne after the show, they might also admit to calling Scorpius something slightly different when his back is turned.  Amongst the other male models, he’s known as _The Ice Queen_ , because _that bitch is cold._

When Scorpius, or _Scor_ as he’s known in the muggle world, is on the runway or in a photographer’s studio, he doesn’t see the scrutiny in the eyes of those who watch him, for his focus is so singular and perfect.  This is what it is to be a top model – to strive for adoration, all while making it look like you couldn’t give two shits about what anybody thinks.

It comes to Scorpius so naturally because this is what it is to be a Malfoy.

To be smooth and flawless on the surface, but jagged-edged and broken on the inside.  To be aristocratic in one breath, and vulgar in the next.  To hold secrets behind a pretty façade, but project the illusion that those secrets could be extracted with the right kind of coercion. To be young and reckless and beautiful and make everyone covet your lifestyle, while ruining your life and self destructing spectacularly.

  

This is what it is to be a Prince of Ice. When the ice melts at the end of the season, the glittering kingdom is lost.


	3. Albus

**_“For the love of the crowd_ **

**_and the three cheers from everyone”_ **

 

 

There are few people who can say they have seen a million faces in the same short span of time that Albus has.  A million faces, not just accumulated in passing over his twenty-two years, but a million faces that have actually connected with him on some level. A million sets of eyes that have gazed upon him with adoration.  A million mouths revering him.  A million ears listening raptly to him.  All over the course of a whirlwind career that began at the tender age of sixteen.

Out of those million faces, it is difficult to remember any one face in particular, even if the interaction had been on a more intimate level, such as signing an autograph or having a picture taken. There are some super fans that he could pick out amongst a crowd.  Even a few that he knows by name – the ones who follow his band over an entire leg of a tour, who stand up front in the audience and sing every word, who wait at stage doors to catch a glimpse of him as he leaves after a show, who write fan blogs detailing every minutia of his public (and private) life.

  

There’s a small gathering of about ten super fans who have caught wind that The White Lies are working on their latest album in Los Angeles, and have figured out which studio they’ve occupied based on the pictures Connor has been posting on his Instagram. It had taken about a week for the super fans to deduce and stake out the band’s whereabouts.  They’ve been lingering nearly every day since – perhaps not the same exact people each time, but a fairly consistent group.

Albus tries to make an effort to chat with the fans each day.  Sometimes it is a quick hello on the way in or the way out.  Other times, when he can spare it, he spends upwards of fifteen minutes just hanging out with them – connecting, appeasing, being diplomatic, smiling, nodding – even if it makes him terribly uncomfortable. 

He’d always wanted to be famous in his own right, independent of his surname and what it meant in the wizarding world. But just like in the wizarding world, the muggle world has their own expectations of Albus, even though they are slightly different.  Living up to his dad’s name was hard enough.  Living up to the name he made for himself in the muggle world has proven to be even harder. Albus Severus, rock star extraordinaire, is believed to be one of the most approachable celebrities in popular music today. Which means anyone and everyone feels entitled to his time.

But time is something that Albus has very little of. He often finds that he’s sold somebody short after parceling it out.  Usually, those people closest to him are left hanging, since they’re supposed to understand, more than the average fan, just how little time he has for anything. Snub a fan who just wants a quick picture (multiply that by a hundred fans who think they are solitary in their small request) and suddenly Albus is a typical, arrogant, arsehole rock star.  Fans are much less forgiving than friends or family.

So text messages from his mates back home are ignored, owls from his parents return empty-clawed, and phone calls from his husband, Scorpius, go unanswered.  When the fans have been waiting on their feet for hours, Albus feels justified in making his relations wait a day for a reply. 

 

After nearly three weeks, the band is wrapping up recording.  They’ve got one more day booked at the studio, and their producer thinks they should be on schedule to finish tomorrow.  While the microphones are being set up at the start of the session, Albus and the band take the opportunity to greet the fans outside one last time, since they’ll likely work straight through the day.

There’s a new face among them.  The face is vaguely familiar, but Albus doesn’t think he’s seen this person outside the studio before.  It’s a strikingly attractive face – with soft, appealing features, punctuated by a number of piercings, and framed by a severely stylish haircut. It’s a friendly face, though the person it belongs to is contrastingly intimidating, with his many tattoos and all-black attire on a hot L.A. afternoon.

“Hello, Albie.”  The voice that ushers forth amiably from smiling lips bears the hint of an accent and an alarming tone of familiarity.

“Oh hey!” Albus responds as if he knows this person, since this person seems to know him more than the average fan. He’s never been good at faking it, but people seem to give him credit for trying.

“Maybe you don’t recognize me.  It’s been a long time,” says the young man. And now the accent is very clearly German.

Albus grins nervously, unable to place this bloke amongst the million faces.  “I sort of remember,” he says bashfully, tipping his chin down in a way that many find endearing. “We’ve met before, yeah? In Germany?”  He makes it sound like recollection is rising to the forefront of his memory, but really, he’s grasping at straws.

The fellow nods, and the friendly smile quirks at the corner into a slight smirk.  “Yes, in Berlin.  We were both a bit younger.”

Albus smiles and nods in return, faking it so hard that it’s painful.  “Erm, refresh my memory, please?  Tell me your name.” 

“Huldiberaht,” he says, and promptly truncates it to something more manageable, “Huldi.”

Albus bites the corner of his lip and scratches the back of his neck while he shakes his head coyly, trying his best to look humble instead of like an elevated prat who couldn’t be arsed to remember anyone he meets.

The young man leans closer, just beyond a comfortable distance for a near stranger, and says, “Maybe this will help you to recall.” He parts his lips and sticks out his tongue just enough to reveal a little metal ball nestled in the middle.

And it all comes flooding back.

 

Albus was seventeen, on tour for the first time, away from Scorpius for the first time, exploiting the (short-lived) open nature of their relationship to its fullest for the first time, when he met a nineteen-year-old German boy at a backstage afterparty. 

Huldi isn’t just a fan.  He’s a fan that Albus has fucked.

 

Albus’ eyes go wide and he gasps with nostalgic recognition. “Bloody hell.  You’re a long way from Germany.” 

They exchange laughter and knowing glances.

“I’m in L.A. for a month.  Doing a short residency at Club Exo.”  He hands Albus a glossy postcard.  “I’m a DJ.  You and the boys should come some time.  I’ll put you on the guest list.”

Albus absently studies the card, still reeling from the awkwardness of seeing one of his post-show conquests again. It’s your typical dance club handbill, promising half-price cocktails before eleven and a _Fet-Life_ exhibition at midnight – whatever that is.

“Brilliant.  If we catch a break from recording, we’ll definitely come.” 

It’s a line that he’s fed people many times in lieu of inelegantly declining an invitation.  Albus doesn’t think he means it more than any other instance he’s said it.  But something about the lilt of Huldi’s grin makes Albus _want_ to mean it, even if it’s a remote possibility.


	4. James

**_“Screaming like this in the hole of sincerity”_ **

 

 

 

Not far from the Shrieking Shack in Hogsmeade, there is a quiet cottage upon a hill.  On the outside, it appears to be cozy and tidy, with canary yellow shutters and flowers peeking up from planter boxes hung below beveled glass windows. It is the sort of cottage that a little old lady would live in. 

But on the inside, the cottage is much bigger than the exterior would suggest, due in part to some architectural magic. And it is not occupied by simple country folk, but by an unconventional couple.  That is, when the occupants are actually in residence, which had been rare up until very recently.

When Professor Teddy Lupin had the cottage built a little over a year ago, he had intended for it to be a place he could escape to when the stress of teaching Transfiguration at Hogwarts became overwhelming. He wanted a place that James could come home to when his rigorous schedule with Puddlemere allowed it. He meant for it to be their shared haven – a love nest, if you will.

 

Lately, it feels more in league with the neighboring Shrieking Shack – a place to hide horrible things – a place to keep secrets. The sounds that can be heard emanating from the cottage could certainly be mistaken for noises that had once come from the shack, back when it was considered one of the most haunted places in Scotland.  Screams of painful anguish and obscene cries of rage now punctuate the pastoral tranquility surrounding the cottage. 

But if you were Teddy, you’d never know the cottage sounded like the Shrieking Shack unless you asked a neighbor. For James will never let Teddy hear him at his worst – when his nerves are on fire from the simple act of trying to bear weight on his legs, when rising to a seated position from laying down makes his spine feel like it’s shattering into a mosaic of bone all over again, when breathing too hard makes it seem like his ribs are fracturing once more to puncture his lungs, when the frustration of not being able to do simple tasks unaided reaches a boiling point.

James is generally a stoic person. To give you an idea of exactly how well he can hide his pain, it could be pointed out that he had broken his arm during a quidditch match in his third year at Hogwarts and kept on playing through the excruciating pain – he had been so stoic that nobody realized he’d injured himself until he took off his kit in the changing room to reveal a crook in his forearm that was not his elbow.  So you can imagine what sort of pain it would take to drive James to scream the way he does when his beloved is tucked away behind the stone walls of Hogwarts castle.

He screams only when Teddy isn’t home because he can’t stand the look of pity and helplessness in those lavender-tinted eyes that used to darken to a deep, passionate purple whenever they fell upon James. He won’t ever let Teddy know just how bad things are, not to spare him any more grief, but to save himself from being patronized and coddled and infantilized.  It had taken James eighteen years to get Teddy to begin to see him as something other than a little boy – he wasn’t about to go back to being Teddy’s kid brother, now that James was twenty-four and Teddy was twenty-nine and they were lovers.

Even though James hides his pain, it is impossible to hide the fact that, after six months of treatment, rehabilitation, and recovery, he still hasn’t regained the use of his legs and his ravaged spinal cord has not healed to the point where minor stimulation doesn’t cause his nerves to overreact.  He could take potions to numb the pain.  But doing so renders his mind foggy and makes his weak muscles less controllable, which is exactly what he doesn’t want.  So he grits his teeth and he endures the pain, hoping for a more prompt return of all his faculties.

 

Teddy comes home one night after classes and finds James alone and naked on the bathroom floor, struggling to pull himself back onto his wheelchair, having fallen onto the tile and given up trying to get himself into the tub.  James is so humiliated he could almost hex his lover blind, just so he wouldn’t have to face Teddy’s overwhelming sympathy.

But Teddy knows James better than anyone else, and he doesn’t over react.  He under reacts, if anything, for Teddy understands that the most sensitive part of James is his ego.  He leans on the frame of the doorway and crosses his arms, grinning wryly – but Teddy can’t hide his emotions like James can, and his hair turns to an orange shade of alarm.

“Either you’re trying to seduce me, or you fired yet another aide today,” Teddy says.

James returns Teddy’s sardonic grin and replies, “Let’s just say, _both_.”

Teddy dislodges himself from the doorway to help James into the chair.  “How about I refrain from telling you what a brat you are and just give you a bath, hm?”

Maybe six months ago, James would have taken this as playful banter.  But he’s been so bitter since his accident that he sees it as yet another example of Teddy treating him like a child.  He might even remember Teddy saying similar words when they were younger – when James was young enough to warrant Teddy babysitting him.

James doesn’t want a babysitter. Which is why he’s gone through five at-home aides and three house-call healers.  It’s been a challenge finding the right people to assist with his recovery and rehabilitation.  He needs professionals who will be discreet and won’t sell humiliating photos and personal information to the press, hence his decision to recover at a remote cottage, rather than at Saint Mungo’s.  He needs people who can take his temper tantrums, who won’t buckle under the pressure James puts on both his support staff and himself.  He needs people who will neither pamper him excessively, nor neglect him irresponsibly, who can find a balance between the two. James is beginning to think that such wizards do not exist in the medical profession and that the only requirements to graduate from a Healer academy are idiocy and incompetence.

Teddy slips his arms underneath James’ and holds him firmly.  It isn’t an embrace, though James could really use one right now.  It is a practiced dance of sorts.  James leans forward, putting the weight of his upper body on Teddy, and Teddy heaves James out of the chair and into the bath with a lot of effort and quite a bit of water splashing onto the floor.

“Do you know what would make this bath perfect?” James says, smirking up at Teddy. 

“I know just the thing,” Teddy replies, ruffling James’ already tousled hair.  James wants to cringe away from Teddy’s fingers.  It is too much like being five again, without the wistful nostalgia.

Teddy swishes his wand and the bath fills with multi-colored bubbles.  Now the scene from James’ childhood is complete.  And it makes him want to jab something sharp into his forehead.

Teddy smiles fondly and steps away from the tub. “I’m going to get the kettle on and I’ll be back to wash your hair.”

James frowns deeply when Teddy’s back is to him, but forces a smile when he turns to add cheekily, “Don’t go anywhere, Jamie,” which James might have found endearing if he weren’t so annoyed.

While Teddy scurries off to the kitchen, James mutters to himself with a sullen, mocking tone, “You know what would make this bath perfect, Teddy?  You, in it with me. But, whatever.” He smiles sarcastically and scoops up iridescent foam in his hands as he says, quite loudly this time, “I’ve got fucking bubbles!”  He blows the foam out of his cupped palms and returns to pouting genuinely.


	5. Scorpius

**_“The shameless kiss of vanity”_ **

 

 

Working in non-magical industries necessitates the use of muggle technology, and Scorpius feels like he’s become too dependent on it. 

Sometimes it’s a blessing to have a tiny device that makes communication instantaneous.  But sometimes, Scorpius feels like he’s become a slave to it. He longs for the patience he once had when parchment, ink, and owls were all one needed to connect. Bad habits are practically a birth right in his family, and his tendency towards repetitive compulsive behavior keeps him from being able to get through the day without touching his mobile phone at least once an hour.

 

The phone is vibrating now, alerting Scorpius to an incoming text message.  He swipes the device off the bathroom counter with eager swiftness. When he reads the short missive, his heart sinks with disappointment.  It’s not exactly who he had been hoping to hear from.

 

_In LA for another day. Sorry._

_Have to re-record vocal tracks._

_Miss you. Love You. XOXO_

 

It’s Albus.  Scorpius heaves a long sigh, annoyed.  His husband has been in The States for three weeks - _What’s another day?_ He mutters to himself sarcastically.

  

_I want you home NOW. Not tomorrow.  Not the next day.  NOW. I NEED YOU.  STOP IGNORING MY TEXTS!_

 

Scorpius is tired of communicating with Albus on Albus’ terms.  Albus finds it perfectly acceptable to take upwards of twenty-four hours to respond to a voice mail message or text.  If Scorpius took the same sort of flippant attitude with, say, his agent, he’d be out of a job. He can’t exactly fire his husband.

He suppresses the urge to send the petulant message, hovering his finger over the touchscreen. Instead, he gives Albus a taste of his own medicine.  He won’t respond until tonight, and when he does, he’ll have very little to say.

 

_Okay, Al._

  

For now, he sends a message to Alexa.

_I know I just asked you yesterday, but…_

_Any news on New York Fashion Week casting?_

 

Scorpius sets down his mobile and resumes wrestling with his hair.  He pushes back his fringe and grieves over the fact that it’s darkening again.  He had spent nearly all of his twenty-two years as a platinum blond, thanks to his Malfoy genes.  But somewhere, lying dormant within his genetic makeup, were Greengrass and Black Family genes.  They had chosen a very inopportune time to express themselves.  His hair had been slowly, steadily, and inexplicably darkening over the last few weeks.  And now, as he gazed fretfully at his reflection, Scorpius saw tawny, brassy, strands where once there were silken, flaxen locks.

The vibration heralding Alexa’s reply startles Scorpius out of his gloom.

 

_No news. Ring me.  We should talk._

 

Scorpius sighs again, more despondently this time. He’s been friends with Alexa Montague since they were children, and he has long since learned to expect he wouldn’t like what she had to say after she’d decreed their need to talk.

He appreciates her honesty.  It is brutal to the point of wounding him at times, but it is always with Scorpius’ best interest at heart.  He couldn’t have asked for a more well suited talent agent, even though her expertise lies in representing Quidditch stars. In this moment, he really doesn’t feel like being subject to Alexa’s harsh brand of reality. His ego is wounded enough.

“Okay, here’s the thing, Scor,” Alexa says upon answering her mobile, which has Scorpius bracing himself for the worst from the get-go, “I’ve done some market research and I’ve come to a conclusion.  The casting agents are probably taking one look at your composite card and putting it in the reject pile. Do you want to know why?”

“Not really,” Scorpius mumbles, pouting slightly, “but I suppose you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“You’re too pretty,” she says bluntly.

Scorpius furrows his brow with confusion and studies himself in the bathroom mirror.  “Too pretty?”

“Too pretty,” Alexa reiterates.  “The climate has changed drastically in menswear this season. There was a time when androgyny was hot. They’d send teenage boys down the runway that looked prettier than the girls.  But now, everybody wants bearded blokes with tattoos and muscle definition. They want manly men.”

“Fuck, I couldn’t grow a beard even if I wanted to,” Scorpius whines, fingering the non-existent stubble on his chin.

“You could try potions.  I hear there are some good ones on the market that help grow facial hair,” she suggests.

“But I don’t _want_ to grow a beard,” Scorpius protests moodily.  “I can't believe this.  Last season, I walked all seven menswear shows in London. And now you’re telling me I didn’t even get one call-back for New York?  Not one?”

“Sorry, Scor,” Alexa says, sounding less sympathetic than Scorpius knows she feels, “That’s the way fashion works. One day you’re in…”

“And the next day you’re out,” Scorpius finishes her sentence. “Yeah, I get that.  I just didn’t realize how literal it was.  I feel like I just shot an editorial for Entity magazine yesterday.”

Alexa points out, “That was last week, darling.”

She might as well have said, _you are so last week, darling,_ because it makes him feel just as washed up. 

He inwardly laughs humorlessly at the irony of it all. He never had true ambitions to make a career out of modeling.  He’d fallen into it on a whim nearly three years ago, for lack of anything else to do while Albus was on the road, after a scout handed him her card.  It was only recently that Scorpius started thinking of it as a job rather than a hobby.  Of course, fate would have it, that this is when the once-steady stream of gigs would thin out.

This is how the kingdom of The Ice Prince melts, as swiftly as it had been built.

“Would it make a difference if I bleached my hair?” he proposes, twisting his lips as he tugs on a chestnut streak running through his fringe, recalling how his grandmother Narcissa’s hair had the same tendency.

“I haven’t done market research on hair color,” she says, sounding distracted.  “Scor, I’ll phone you if anything comes up.  If you ring me and I don’t answer, please don’t take it personally. It’s drafting time for the National Quidditch Association teams, and I’ve got contract negotiations all week.”

 

Scorpius consoles himself with a container of chocolate ice cream, wallowing in the mire of self-pity.  _Poor Scorpius. Too pretty and boyish to be a model. Too lithe and nubile._ He mutters these words to himself inside his head with a mocking voice as he shovels spoonful after spoonful of ice cream into his downturned mouth.  _Not masculine enough. Not muscular enough. Maybe I’ll just keep eating ice cream and get fat, since nobody wants me for anything anymore. Not even my husband._

He knows he’s being overly dramatic. But when Scorpius is alone, without his better half to temper him, his self-destructive, self-depreciating behavior spirals out of control.

His mobile starts beeping and buzzing, and he instinctively grabs it out of his pocket after just two rings. He checks the screen, sees that the incoming call is from Albus, and makes a firm decision not to answer. He really doesn’t fancy hearing how wonderful Los Angeles is, and how great the new album sounds, and how brilliant Albus’ career is going while Scorpius is going nowhere. He inwardly cringes with each ring that he ignores, but he stands his ground.  Yeah, he’s bitter.  Yeah, he’s jealous. And that’s all the more reason not to get on the phone with his husband right now, lest he want to get into an argument.

Later that night, when Scorpius is nursing a stomachache from eating too much ice cream, Albus phones him again. Scorpius resolutely lets it ring out four times then picks up right before it should go to voice mail.

“Unf, I’m so glad you picked up,” Albus says with sleep and some sort of need rasping his voice, “I really wanted to hear your voice, baby.”

Any sort of malice Scorpius harbored suddenly melts at the sound of Albus words, which work like magic to comfort him, as they always have.

“Hey, sorry I’ve been unreachable,” Scorpius answers with a sigh, and then blathers on with excuses for ignoring his husband’s text messages and phone calls, blaming his sour stomach as the culprit.

“Scor, if you’re sick, you should see a healer,” Albus says with concern.

“I’ll be alright,” Scorpius grumbles, “I’ll just sleep it off. You’ll be home on Friday, yeah?”

“Actually,” Albus lets out a drawn-out breath. Scorpius has known him long enough to recognize this means Albus is wrestling with a decision inside his head. “Maybe I should stay an extra day. I don’t want to get sick right before our performance at the Brit Awards on Sunday. I’ll give you time to get better.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Scorpius mumbles, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice that has resurged as swiftly as it had subsided.

There’s a long silence before Albus asks with quiet suspicion, “Scor, is everything alright?”  Scorpius thinks he might even detect some guilt in his words.

“Peachy.  I’m going to bed now,” Scorpius replies stiffly.

 

Albus phones Scorpius on Saturday before boarding a plane in Los Angeles.  He tells Scorpius that he’s stopping at his brother’s before heading back to London. He won’t have time to come home before the awards show on Sunday.

He and Albus had plans to meet Alexa and her twin brother, Duston, for dinner on Saturday.  Scorpius doesn’t cancel.  He could really use the company of his dearest, oldest friends right now.

 

“I think Al’s avoiding me,” Scorpius tells them over aperitifs at Garret Goyle’s latest culinary endeavor, a high-end nouvelle French place hidden in the heart of muggle Chelsea.

“Nonsense,” says Duston, “Why would he do that? He’s working, is all.”

Scorpius mumbles moodily, “He’s _always_ working.”

“Speaking of work, how’s--,” Duston starts to inquire. His sister stops him in his tracks with a firm hand on his wrist.

“Let’s not talk about boring modeling stuff,” she says, and Scorpius sends her a small, gracious smile for steering away from a topic that will surely set him off.  “Guess who I snagged a two year contract for with the Canons?” she asks, clearly proud of herself, too excited to wait for an answer.  “Lily Potter.” 

Duston looks impressed.  “Nice one.  I hope you’re handling her endorsement contracts too.”

“Obviously.  She’s all mine to exploit,” Alexa replies with a teasing grin.

Scorpius shakes his head, mildly amused. “Don’t you find your business arrangements a bit, oh, I don’t know, _incestuous_?”

Duston cringes dramatically.  “Haven’t you learned to refrain from using that word around twins? It has some really distasteful connotations.”

“I just mean it’s weird – how you’re now both working for the Potters in some capacity,” Scorpius explains.  “Can’t you branch out to other wizarding families?”

Alexa grins wryly.  “Why should you have the monopoly on the Potters just because you’re married to one?  Besides, it’s not like we’re sleeping with our Potters.  We’re making money off of them.”

“If it weren’t for Al, I’d drop his brother in a heartbeat,” Duston admits, “For your sake, Lex, I hope Lily isn’t as much of a diva as James.”

“Is your patient wearing on your patience?” Scorpius asks with a small laugh.  “What did he do now?”

“Well,” Duston purses his lips and huffs. “Where do I start?  He’s spitting out his pain potions when nobody’s looking, that is, when he actually humors us and takes them.  He’s lifting weights or something even though I told him not to do any rehab exercises without an aide, lest he reinjure himself.  Oh and this!” He gestures animatedly, clearly unamused with James Potter’s antics. “In the span of one week, he threw a plate of pasta at his aide, made her cry, caused her to subsequently quit. And _then_ , the new aide I assigned to him had the ‘audacity’ to put bubbles in his bath, so he sacked her.  I’ve run out of aides who are willing to work with him.  I’m desperate at this point.”

“What a wanker,” Scorpius remarks, “I’m not surprised. Let the fucker starve and break his arse all over again.  Maybe it’ll teach him a lesson in humility.  You know, you really don’t need to keep him on as a patient for Al’s sake. I’m sure he’d understand.”

Duston heaves a long sigh and massages his forehead wearily. “I just feel so awful for that motherfucker.  I think he could make a full recovery in time if he’d just bloody do what he’s told and not be such a brat about it.  None of the other healers share my optimism.”

Alexa adds under her breath, “Or your discretion, for that matter.  I admire you for keeping all the dirt you have on him to yourself.”

Duston continues, “Sometimes I think James would shrivel up and resign to be a cripple for the rest of his life, rather than be an inpatient at Saint Mungo’s, recovering in public.  I’m the only hospital resident who has the time and the patience to make house calls for him, but that’ll change in two years when I’m fully boarded.”

Scorpius remarks, “If he doesn’t start behaving soon, he’s going to be fucked when you leave his case.”

Duston nods in agreement.  “At this rate, he won’t be rehabilitated enough to live independently by the time I’m transferred off his case.  And, seriously, I don’t think there’s much hope of reaching that goal once he’s out of my care.  Son of the Savior or not, nobody wants to work with a hot mess like James.” 

Scorpius puts a consoling hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I feel for you, mate. Drinks are on me after dinner.”

Duston cracks a small, mirthless smile. “I won’t say no to alcohol, but it would be more helpful if you produced an aide from your arse crack right about now.”

Scorpius doesn’t really think about it when he jokingly replies, “I’ll take the job.  I’ve got a shit-tonne of nothing to do and Albie’s going on a promo tour soon.”

When Duston beams genuinely, expressing his relief all the way up to his eyes, Scorpius doesn’t have the heart to tell his friend that he’s joking.  “Circe, you’d do that, Scor?  You’re a bloody saint!”

Scorpius chokes on the gravity of what he’s just agreed to, for he has surely bitten off much more than he can chew. But he smiles and appears nonchalant. “For the chance to watch James Fucking Potter flailing helplessly, I’d bloody pay _you_.”

Duston gushes with gratitude and looks so relieved that Scorpius can’t take back his offer – he’s seen how stressed his friend has been, and Duston is too much like family to let him drown while Scorpius can give him a hand.

“It actually pays quite well for a job that requires no medical training,” Duston assures him.

“Helping you is payment enough.” Scorpius smiles, though he’s not convinced that he means it.

Alexa, ever the honest member of their little circle of former Slytherins, chimes in with blunt force reality.  “You know you’ll have to see him naked.”

Scorpius nearly spits out the bite of _foie gras_ he had just eaten.

“Not really,” Duston swiftly corrects his sister’s notion. “Teddy usually dresses James before he goes up to Hogwarts, and at night when he comes home. And recently, he’s taken charge of baths, since James had been so horrid to his aides during bath time. You won’t ever have to see him naked, unless he decides he wants to change or have a bath while you’re there, which I doubt.”

Before Scorpius has a chance to heave a sigh of relief, Alexa proposes, “Well, then who wipes his arse?  Does James call Teddy down from the castle every time he has a shit?”

Duston jokingly reprimands his sister, feigning being scandalized by her lack of filter at the dinner table, though Scorpius suspects that the twins are finding this conversation endlessly amusing. “Please, Lex!  I’d like to enjoy my fucking pate without thinking about James Bloody Potter having a shit.”

“I’m not wiping his arse,” Scorpius declares resolutely, “I’ll babysit him, but I won’t take care of his bathroom business.”

“You won’t have to, Scor,” Duston reassures him, “He has enough strength and agility to get himself on and off the toilet. But if he happens to fall off, you’ll have to step in.”

The three friends pause quietly for a matter of seconds before bursting into laughter, all of them likely imagining vain and arrogant James Sirius Potter, Gryffindor Wanker of the Century, Puddlemere Prat of the Year, falling off the toilet.

Maybe this job won’t be so horrible. At the very least, it should be good for a laugh.


	6. James

**_“The aching kiss before I feed”_ **

 

 

Teddy’s hands are delightfully warm on a cold morning. They come around from behind to rest on the top of James’ pallid, bare thighs.  James is sitting at the foot of the bed while Teddy is behind him on the mattress.  James feels his lover’s hot breath ghosting the side of his neck with a labored rhythm. He feels Teddy’s soft, turquoise curls tickling his skin.  With Teddy’s front pressed to James’ back, he languishes in the closeness of their bodies, letting his eyelids shutter.  And something stirs inside him that he hasn’t felt in a while – at least not to this degree.

“Think you can manage to lift your bum one more time so I can pull your trousers up all the way?” Teddy asks, snapping James out of his reverie.

“I could,” James drawls softly, reaching back to hook his fingers behind Teddy’s neck, “but you now have to contend with getting my trousers over what appears to be a hard-on.”

Teddy seems quietly startled.  “What?  Oh. _Oh._ ”

“The monster has awoken from his long slumber,” James says seductively, as he palms the tent in his underpants, “And I’m in the perfect place for you to just lay me down and fuck me.”

“Jamie,” Teddy groans, burying his face into James’ neck, “I have to go to work.”

“I know you, Professor Lupin,” James says with an astute smirk, “You can be quick when you really want to be.  Get in, get it on, get off, and get to class.”

Teddy whines, clearly finding it painful to refuse James, “Jamie, I’m not going to have sex with you under these conditions.”

Affronted, James answers shortly, “Why not? What’s the big deal? Just push back my gimp legs and fuck me. Simple.”

“I don’t want to fuck you, Jamie.” Teddy moves off the bed, kneels on the floor, and gazes up at James.  For a very brief moment, James gets excited about the implications of Teddy on his knees. But he’s soon disappointed. “We haven’t had sex properly since… since the accident.  And I want it to be special. I don’t want to have a rushed quickie before work.”

James heaves a resigned, annoyed sigh and rolls his eyes. “Fine.  But I can’t promise you I can get it up again when you want me to. You know it’s been hard - erm, bad choice of words – I mean, _unpredictable_.”

Teddy takes both of James’ hands and kisses his knuckles, gazing up lovingly with sweet lavender eyes.  “I know.  I’m patient. When the time is right, I promise you, I’ll give you the shagging of a lifetime.  But until then, I’ll wait for you.”  He reaches up to kiss James on the forehead.  “I love you.”

James hates this.  He hates to be denied of anything, especially of Teddy. He also hates to argue with Teddy when he’s being an unrepentant romantic.  He hates feeling exactly the way he did when he was fifteen - when Teddy tried to reject his amorous advances with grace.  It’s hard to be sore with somebody who seems so madly in love with you, but is too selfless and scared to do anything to show it, as if making love could possibly break James’ body any more than it already is.

“Love you too,” James mumbles, almost inaudibly. “Help me get my bloody jeans on before I give the new aide an eyeful.”

 

James has been referring to the person who is coming to help as _The New Aide_ , as if keeping things impersonal could change the humiliating fact that he is now under the care of his brother’s husband, who he has never gotten used to calling his brother-in-law. 

He’s never liked Scorpius Malfoy, who had always taken the most annoying bits of his little brother and amplified them to intolerable levels. Though he was not pleased with the prospect of spending hours alone with this irritating person, he was looking forward, with fiendish delight, to making Scorpius’ job Hell. It was one thing to toy with the pity of strangers.  It was another entirely enjoyable thing to torture his family, and as much as he didn’t like to admit it, Scorpius was family.

 

Scorpius arrives just before Teddy leaves for Hogwarts, stepping through the floo as Teddy is making sure James is situated properly in his wheelchair.  Teddy has no time for pleasantries, yet apologizes for this fact, as he gets right to it and shows Scorpius how to operate the wheelchair – how to put the breaks down and how to disengage them, how to unlatch the arm rests, how to take off the back rest – all while James sits there with an aggravated expression.

Perhaps Teddy is trying to make up for disappointing him earlier, for he peppers kisses on James’ cheeks – a gesture of affection disturbingly akin to that of his mother’s.  “I love you I love you I love you,” Teddy dotes on him, then adds teasingly, “Be a good boy.”

The corner of James’ lips quirk with mischief as he says, “Aren’t I always?”

Teddy sighs and gives Scorpius an apologetic glance. “Good luck.  Owl me if you need anything.” 

“We’ll be fine, I’m sure,” says Scorpius, who looks unconvinced, unsurprisingly.

“One more.” Teddy leans in for another kiss, this one stolen from James’ lips.  It’s meant to be a quick peck, but James hooks a hand behind his neck and makes him linger on his mouth. 

When they part, James teases, “Now sod off to work before we get into a hot snogging session and make the new aide uncomfortable.”

But James would like nothing more than to keep showing an inordinate amount of affection while making an already uneasy environment even more awkward for Scorpius.  He smirks to himself with amusement as he smacks Teddy on the arse en route to the floo.  The smirk turns darkly triumphant when he glances at Scorpius and sees him rolling his eyes.

 

“You guys are gross, you know that?” says Scorpius, standing there with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jumper, looking bored already.  “I don’t ever want to hear you complain about me and Albus kissing at family functions ever again.”

 

James shrugs blithely.  “My house, my rules.”

 

“Right.  Well, let’s get on with it.”  Scorpius tries to test that decree and starts laying down the law.  “We’ll start with stretching.  Then move on to weight-bearing exercises. Do a bit of cardio. That should bring us to lunch. I’m thinking we could wheel you around outside and get some fresh air this afternoon.  Stop into the apothecary in Hogsmeade to refill your pain potions. Come back and do some occupational therapy.”

 

“I see Healer Montague has trained you already,” says James, unimpressed, “Pity.”

 

“Look, Potter,” Scorpius says firmly, “I’m not exactly thrilled about this job.  I’m doing Duston a favor.  Not you. Not your brother. Duston.  So let’s just get all the rehab over with so I can leave you to your own devices until your boyfriend gets home.”

 

“I’ll do all my rehab right now if you promise you’ll really be on your merry way afterwards,” James proposes.

 

“I never said I’d leave after rehab. I’m getting paid to babysit your arse all bloody day.  After rehab, you can do whatever the hell you want, is all I’m saying.  Wank yourself silly, for all I care – I brought reading material and there’s a comfy looking chair in the study that I might take up residence in.”

 

Scorpius seems undeterred, but at the same time, infuriatingly indifferent.  Not that James really cares if he’s neglected.  He never wanted a bothersome home care aide to begin with, nor does he need one.

 

Ten months into his recovery, he’s fine doing exercises on his own and taking care of himself – he’s got it down to a science, using just the right spells to compensate for his lack of mobility, and a modified dose of analgesic potions to take the edge off his constant pain without compromising his senses. Having somebody at the cottage gives his parents and Teddy some peace of mind, so he’s been humoring them, but not without having a bit of fun at the aides’ expense.

 

“I’m not doing rehab.  Not until I’ve had breakfast.”  James crosses his arms obstinately.

 

Scorpius raises a questioning brow. “I assumed you already had breakfast with Teddy.”

 

James smiles like the little shit he knows he’s being. “Second breakfast. Tea and toast. Please and thank you. Chop chop.  Time’s a-wasting.”  He wheels himself around swiftly, quite agile in his chair, and speeds away, leaving Scorpius to navigate the kitchen alone.

 

From the other room, James can hear the familiar sounds of tea being prepared.  He hears the kettle whistling and calls out, “Is it done yet?  What’s taking so long?  Did your aristocratic daddy never teach you how to make your own tea?”

 

Scorpius calls out from the kitchen with a saccharine tone, “No, but my mummy taught me how to put Arsenic in tea, so mind your manners.”

 

James doesn’t doubt Scorpius’ tea and toast making abilities.  It’s just that he’s set a personal goal to make Scorpius want to quit by the end of the day – it would be an all time record.  The standing record is two days.

 

Scorpius floats a tray into the sitting room. James rolls up to the coffee table, takes a bite of toast, and decrees it’s burnt, even though it’s barely browned. He has a sip of tea, and proclaims it to be swill. 

 

Scorpius just shrugs and says dismissively, “Make your own bloody tea and toast if you don’t like mine,” and retreats to the kitchen to tidy up, leaving James gaping in his wake.

 

James isn’t used to being treated like this. Nine times out of ten, when James complains about the tea and toast, the aid will fix up another set. He wheels into the kitchen just to make sure Scorpius isn’t preparing another cup of tea and toasting bread. He is surprisingly disappointed that Scorpius is indeed not taking James’ shit.

 

“Never mind the washing up.  I want to work on weight-bearing exercises,” says James.

 

Doing rehabilitating exercises with Scorpius is just as ‘fun’ as second breakfast.  Scorpius has an enchanted book with animated diagrams of each movement that James is already painfully familiar with – quite literally.  Though his muscles are hardly disused anymore, it still hurts to use them.  Scorpius doesn’t bat a translucent eyelash at James when James groans and grunts overdramatically with discomfort.  He just keeps studying the diagrams with his elbows on his knees, pausing periodically to tell James that he’s doing something incorrectly.  He never asks James if he wants more potion to ease the pain, nor does he ever touch him, whereas his former aides had always superfluously moved his body for him as if he were a useless ragdoll.

 

James gets cocky and does modified pushups in his chair, balancing carefully on the arm rests.

 

“You’re not supposed to be doing that,” Scorpius says with very little, if any, genuine concern.

 

He’s supposed to use a special stationary apparatus for that – the wood structure installed in the spare bedroom that looks like a little pedestrian bridge – basically an incline with handrails that James also uses to practice walking.

 

“You know what would be fucking hilarious?” Scorpius proposes, “If I flicked my wand and disengaged the breaks on your wheelchair right now.  You’d be on your arse in a heartbeat.”

 

James takes it as a challenge.  He plants himself back in the chair, reaches down to disengage the wheel locks, and goes back to propping himself up on the arm rests. He grins smugly when the wheelchair doesn’t roll or tilt back beneath him.

 

Scorpius heaves a bored sigh and returns his attention to the illustrations, speaking absently, “If you break your arse again, it’s not my problem.”

 

“I broke a lot of things when that dyke knocked me off my broom – my arse was not one of them and Teddy can attest to the fact that it is perfectly in tact.”  Much of what James has just said is meant to rile up Scorpius.

 

To an extent, it works.

 

Scorpius looks up from his book and sharply raises an eyebrow.  “That _dyke_?”

 

“Paloma Herrera - the bitch that put me in this shitty situation in the first place.  She’s a dyke, yeah?”  Of course, James is still bitter.

 

“Pretty sure she’s married to a bloke, actually,” Scorpius replies airily then adds with a pointed look, “And you sound like an idiot using the word, _dyke_.”

 

James exults a very distorted version of what happened at that career-ending quidditch match. “I tried to flirt with her and she knocked me off my broom.  I figured she didn’t fancy blokes.  I mean, why else would she not flirt back with _me_? She’s a dyke – she’s not into cock.”

 

Scorpius steels himself with a deep breath, calmly puts down the book, and says just as evenly, “Number one: You’re an arse. Number two: your own homosexuality or bisexuality doesn’t give you license to use words like _dyke_.  And really, the fact that _you_ are into cock probably gives you even _less_ of a right to carelessly throw around derogatory terms about lesbians.”

 

James grits his teeth and grunts as he does another repetition of push-ups while defending his case with complete bullshit. “What?  I fancy girls too.  I kept flirting with Paloma even though I thought she was a lesbian. Doesn’t that prove my inclusiveness?”

 

There goes Scorpius’ incredulous eyebrow again. He repeats his first statement for effect.  “Number one: You’re an arse.”

 

James scoffs, “What do you care? I don’t see you going out there fighting for gay rights.”

 

Scorpius’s cool exterior falters an almost imperceptible fraction. “When you grow up being called names like _limp-wristed-ponce_ even before you’re old enough to be aware of your own sexuality, you get rather miffed when you hear it coming from people who should know better.”

 

“Oh boo fucking hoo,” James mocks. “Welcome to the real world, where dumb-arses try to ruin your day because you fancy blokes.”  He comes back down in his chair, wipes the sweat off his brow, and keeps talking because now _he’s_ annoyed at Scorpius’ entitlement.

 

“So somebody called you a _faggot_ once or twice when you were a kid.  Imagine growing up with the expectation that you’re going to follow in your dad’s footsteps in every way, including carrying on the family name and populating the wizarding world with more little Potter heroes. You never had to hide who you were like I had to.  You never had to play it straight.  You and Al practically shoved your gayness down everybody’s throats from the time you were specky teenagers, and everybody loved you for it.  So don’t go crying to me about how bad you had it, growing up gay.”

 

James hadn’t intended to be so forthcoming about himself in his plight to discredit Scorpius’ entitlement.  But there it was.  And it was the one thing that knocked Scorpius off his feet – the one thing he seemed affected by – not James being a disrespectful pain in the arse.

 

Scorpius chews the corner of his lip and looks away with a shameful frown.  “Whatever. Words are just words, I suppose,” he mumbles before sulking off.

 

The rest of the morning, Scorpius is quiet, and James is rather bored with him.  So he tries to stir the pot come teatime by proving the _too many cooks in the kitchen_ adage.  He closely supervises Scorpius as he makes them sandwiches, going as far as dictating the thickness of the cucumbers, but never lifts a single finger during the whole ordeal.  And because James is being so nit-picky, it takes twice as long to prepare the meal as it should.  Scorpius does a lot of pursing of lips and gnashing of teeth and silent seething, but doesn’t blow up or offer a sarcastic remark.  But James knows that he’s getting to him.

 

He grins triumphantly when Scorpius stomps out of the kitchen after clunking the plate of sandwiches on the table and says “I need some air.” 

 

He gets bored again when, as promised, Scorpius disappears into the study for hours, until well after the sun has set. For lack of anything else to do, and to further Scorpius’ annoyance, James prepares dinner on his own. He doesn’t just heat a can of something over the stove.  He makes an entire three-course meal for everybody.

 

Scorpius shuffles into the kitchen, looking like he’s just woken up from a nap, and narrows his eyes.  “What the fuck is this?” he mutters groggily.

 

“This is fucking garden salad, fucking penne a la vodka, and fucking sticky toffee pudding.”  James smiles widely, visibly proud of his accomplishment, as he points to the dishes displayed prettily on the kitchen counter, ready to be served upon Teddy’s return.

 

“You can do this all by yourself?” Scorpius asks incredulously with a furrowed brow, clearly more annoyed than impressed.

 

James nods and beams, putting on his most infuriating shit-eating-grin.

 

“You _fucking_ arsehole,” Scorpius says breathily, “I bloody quit.” He throws his arms up with exasperation.

 

James gasps joyously as if he’s just been offered the world.  “You mean it?” He’s so bloody proud of himself he could jump out of his wheelchair and dance.

 

“Not on your life,” Scorpius sighs wearily, “We still need to practice walking today.  And I’m pretty damn sure you can’t do _that_ on your own.”

 

 _Ouch._ He’s absolutely right. Though James hates to admit it. As far as he’s come, which had been pretty damn far in the last four months, James still can’t walk or stand for more than a few minutes before he loses control of his legs or succumbs to excruciating back pain.

 

He’ll keep Scorpius for as long as Scorpius can take his shit.  If he really thinks about it, which he is reluctant to do, he prefers Scorpius to all of his predecessors who tried much too hard.  And maybe this is what James ultimately needs – somebody resilient, who can not only take it, but dish it as well as James can – somebody who can’t be arsed to care until it’s absolutely necessary.

 

“I’m not practicing today. I’m knackered,” James declares resolutely with a yawn.  “I mean, I slaved over the stove while you took a bloody nap, for Merlin’s sake. I can’t be expected to walk now.”

 

Scorpius shakes his head incredulously and smiles – actually _smiles_ – with weary amusement. “What the fuck am I going to do with you, James Potter?”


	7. Albus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I fucked up and I posted chapters out of sequence and didn't realize until now, days and days later. I posted chapter 8 before 7. I've no idea how this got all screwed up. Apologies! It's all fixed now. If you've read this prior to July 17 2015, you read it in the wrong order. Sorry!!

**_“The soft and the black and the velvety_ **

**_Up tight against the side of me”_ **

Club Exo is definitely not Albus’ scene. He and The White Lies are clearly out of their element.  But they’re tired of velvet ropes, VIP sections, celebrities, and paparazzi. Judging from the handbill that Huldi had given him, Albus had a feeling they wouldn’t find that here. And though he’s relieved to walk into a crowded dance club and not be predated upon by _The Beautiful People_ , he panics for a moment.

 

He leans into Daniel to be heard over the thump of the snarling drumbeat and cacophony of rasping synthesizers.  “I think we should’ve worn black.”

 

“You think?” Daniel replies sarcastically.

 

They survey the dance floor from the outskirts. It is a slowly undulating sea of leather and velvet – a swaying meadow of black mesh and lace. Metal chains, steel studs, and PVC glints darkly in the flashing purple and blue lights.  It is a macabre parade of deathly white faces with heavily lined eyes and black, downturned mouths.  None of these faces lifts from their swirling, sensual gloom to regard Albus or his companions – not to glance curiously at these obvious outsiders, not even to pierce them with unwelcoming stares.  Nobody cares who they are or why they’re here, and it is the only thing that gives Albus solace.

 

It is the end of a very long and arduous three weeks spent writing and recording and re-recording.  A bit of drunken mischief is long overdue for Albus and the boys, even if they have to get drunk and make fools of themselves at a goth-industrial nightclub.

 

Connor jumps in headlong, joining the dancing throng, and moves with mocking similarity to those around him, complete with an exaggerated pout.  The boys laugh, and even though Albus joins in their hilarity, he has a sinking feeling that one of them is going to get their arse kicked by the steel-toe boot of a leather-clad beast.

 

“Alcohol. I’m not drunk enough for this,” Albus declares as he leads the beeline to the bar. 

 

The bartender is a woman with more piercings and tattoos than anyone he’s ever been in close proximity to – Huldi has nothing on this girl.  The sides of her head are shaved, making the bright red swath of hair stand out even more. Albus is almost afraid to order drinks. But she smiles, and it seems to disarm her enough to make Albus feel comfortable approaching.

 

“What can I do you for, cutie pie?” she asks, leaning over the bar, clearly smitten.

 

Albus orders, returning the bartender’s friendliness, “Jameson, neat.  Four please, for me and my mates,”

 

She asks to see his identification – standard procedure in The States, as Albus has become well aware of after visiting several times. He hands her his muggle passport and thinks nothing of it, until she grins and says,  “Albus Potter!”  He instinctively braces himself for the usual exchange that takes place every time he’s recognized in public.  But she doesn’t gush about his music.  “You’re Huldi’s friend.  He told me that if you came by the bar, first round’s on him.”

 

He’s a bit taken aback, but won’t refuse a free round of whiskey.  “Oh, erm, brilliant. Tell him I said thank you.”

 

“You can tell him yourself.  DJ booth is right over there.”  She points at a raised platform on the other side of the dance floor where Huldi is behind the decks, bobbing his head with headphones on, engrossed in the mix.  “You should go say hi. I bet he’d like to see you,” she says as she pours four glasses of whiskey.

 

Albus finds this all rather disconcerting – that a fan, albeit a fan he’s slept with, seems to be under the impression that they’re best mates or something.  “He talks to you about me, I take it?  Only good things, I hope.”  Albus plays along, since it won’t do any good to burst Huldi’s bubble by way of the bartender.

 

“Not much, really.  He was kind of vague, but I’m really good at reading people. He said he _knew_ you a long time ago.”  Her pierced brow raises astutely and she quirks a knowing smirk, giving Albus the impression that she figured out just how intimately they’d _known_ each other. “Said you’re from the UK. And that you’re super cute.  He wasn’t wrong.”

 

So maybe Huldi isn’t a stalker.  Maybe Albus needs to get over himself.

 

Two drinks into their revelry, Connor reemerges from the dance floor, wild eyed and scandalized, though happily so. “Guys, guys!  You _have_ to come check this out!  There are girls in cages _spanking_ each other!”

 

Sure enough, there are girls _and_ boys dancing sinuously in gilded birdcages, wearing fetish gear.  Each cage depicts a deviant tableau. 

 

In the first cage, the one that obviously got Connor’s attention, there are three women in impossibly high heels and even more impossibly tight rubber outfits.  One of the girls is bent over a high stool while the other two are smacking her bottom with leather-gloved hands – it’s obviously just a show, for neither of the women are hitting very hard. 

 

In the next cage, there’s another woman on a stool, this one seated, blindfolded and bound at the wrists.  A man in chaps and a waistcoat is dancing menacingly around her, wielding a leather flogger.  He’s not striking her with it.  He’s letting the many strips of leather tease against her skin while she writhes, as if the anticipation is both arousing her and killing her. 

 

And finally, in the last cage, are two young men. One man, dressed in a rubber tee shirt and matching trousers, is seated regally on a stool with a haughty air about him, as another man, wearing a tiny pair of PVC shorts and a satin corset, crawls on the floor of the cage.  The seated man drags a little leather switch at the end of a long riding crop over the crawling man’s bared back, then taps it firmly between his shoulder blades. The man on the floor arches into his touch with feline keenness as if he’s in ecstasy.

 

Albus finds this scene utterly fascinating. He can’t keep his eyes off the pair. The man on the floor looks so enraptured, with lips parted hungrily.  He seems to be completely enthralled by the mere presence of the other man lording over him. He appears content to be at the other’s feet as he gazes up at him reverently, almost lovingly. And though it is clear that the man with the riding crop knows he’s superior, there’s still a fond glimmer in his eyes, as if he’s gazing amusedly at a beloved pet.

 

Albus knows that these men are putting on a show and that they are there to be watched, but he can’t shake the uncomfortable notion that he’s intruding on something intimate.  There’s something more authentic in the way that they interact with each other that’s starkly different from the other performers.  There’s a genuine connection between them. And Albus can’t stop watching despite the nagging feeling that he shouldn’t be.

 

“See something you like?” 

 

The voice comes from his right and startles Albus out of his daze.  He turns his head to find Huldi standing there with an amused grin, wearing a much more casual version of the all-black uniform that’s prevalent in the club.  With just a black tee shirt, skinny black jeans, and Doc Martens, Huldi still looks more at home here than Albus, who is wearing a more colorful version of the same outfit and mulling about awkwardly.

 

“I guess this is what a _Fet Life Exhibition_ is, hm?  I saw it advertised on the card you gave me and I was not expecting _this_.”  Albus tacks on a small chuckle to cover up the unexpected feelings of embarrassment.

 

Huldi cocks his head to the side curiously and his multi-toned fringe falls over one side of his face.  “What were you expecting?”

 

“I don’t know, actually,” Albus shrugs coyly, “But definitely not kinky go-go dancers in cages.”

 

“Fet Life sponsors the event.  It’s a fetish social networking site that does community outreach,” Huldi explains.

 

Albus’ brows knit together with confusion. “Somehow, the words _fetish_ and _community_ don’t seem to fit together in my head.  I’m imagining blokes in rubber, sitting in a support group circle, exchanging kinky stories while knitting.”

 

Huldi grins wryly and says, “You’re not terribly far off, actually.”

 

They share a laugh before turning their attention back to the young men in the cage.  The man on the floor is now being lead around on a slender leash attached to a chain on his neck, still happy as a clam to be treated like an object, albeit a treasured one.

 

Huldi leans close to speak over the music, which is considerably less oppressive than before he had showed up at Albus’ side. Albus suspects that this was an intentional song choice by the DJ.  He puts one hand on Albus’ shoulder and points at the bloke on the floor with the other.

 

“See that guy?  His name is Marcus.  He’s a complete pain slut.  A bit arrogant when he’s not in his submissive role, though.”

 

Albus quirks a brow, intrigued.  “And you know this, how?”  He hazards a guess.  “Fet Life?”

 

“I’m fairly active, yes,” Huldi admits without shame.

 

With all those piercings, Albus isn’t entirely surprised. But on the other hand, this Marcus fellow and the gentleman with the riding crop appear completely ordinary, with the exception of their attire – no noticeable tattoos or piercings, and a fairly conservative haircuts.  Marcus could be anybody.  And anybody could be harboring the affinity for kink.  It’s a startling revelation. 

 

Huldi adds, still leaning on Albus with his hand on his shoulder, “I could tell you more about it some time. When it’s not so loud and I’m not supposed to be working.”

 

“I’d better let you get back to the helm,” Albus says, “I won’t let my curiosity prevent the DJ from keeping this party afloat. Thanks for the drinks, by the way.”

 

“No worries,” Huldi says with an amicable smile that reaches up to his startlingly blue eyes.  “If you need anything else, just ask.”  He whispers in Albus’ ear, “And if you fancy a bit of _E_ , come by the DJ booth.”  He leaves with a flirtatious wink and a shrewd smirk that lingers in Albus’ head long after he’s gone.

 

Another drink or two later, Albus finds himself unable to ignore the persistent curiosity that’s like an itch he feels compelled to scratch.  He’s unable to fight the draw of the DJ booth and the young man within the box. Perhaps it’s the sinister, industrial melodies that make him crave the darkness and the deviant possibilities that lie behind the thin pane of Plexi-glass.  Or maybe it’s just Albus’ tendency towards mischief that leads him behind the DJ console.

 

Huldi pushes his headphones back to rest around the nape of his neck.  From the front pocket of his jeans, he produces a little plastic box with a bit of effort (those jeans are _fucking tight_ ). Inside the box are tiny blue tablets. He puts one on the tip of his tongue, giving Albus a teasing flash of that delightful metal bead, and gestures with a finger for him to come close.  A hot thrill shoots up Albus’ spine as seconds seem to pass like hours. He absently twirls the platinum band encircling his left ring finger while he worries the corner of his bottom lip. He has only one reservation – one hesitation – and he’s reckless and intoxicated enough to suppress it tonight. He closes the distance.

 

Huldi’s tongue is soft, sweet, and chemically bitter inside Albus’ mouth.  Albus doesn’t intend to let their lips linger longer than is necessary for him to get his hit of _MDMA_.  But then Huldi swipes his tongue over Albus’ and Albus feels his knees weaken when the smooth ball of the lingual piercing clinks against his teeth.  And suddenly, they’re kissing.  And Albus is reeling.

 

He remembers exactly the way that metal bead felt flicking against the sensitive skin at the crook of his neck, rolling against his slicked entrance, gliding along the hard length of his cock. He remembers the way the little steel ball glinted under the harsh lights of the hotel room shower stall every time Huldi opened his mouth to moan as Albus fucked him against the tile – as if the teenage German boy were a _thing_ , an object, like Marcus.

 

And Albus wants to feel that way again, even though he remembers how his actions had sickened him.  He wants to lose control again – to let go of everything that made him good, everything that Scorpius loved about him – to embrace the darkness that lie buried within him – to give in to jealousy and spite and anger and lust - to be wet skin and hot flesh, liberated from the encumbrance of morality.

 

The _Ecstasy_ hits him hard and fast, perhaps aided by some kind of additive or the whiskey coursing through his veins.  In a matter of minutes, he’s hanging onto Huldi like a needy groupie – the irony is not lost on either of them.  In fact, Albus suspects that the irony is what’s putting that delicious little smirk on Huldi’s lips.

 

Albus spends several minutes – or perhaps hours; he’s not sure – lingering behind Huldi as he keeps the music surging and heaving like an ominous tide of distorted melody and synthetic beats. He nuzzles the back of Huldi’s neck and relishes the sensation of soft bristles of hair brushing his face. He smells of sweat and soap and the fires of Hell.

 

The night is a living, pulsing thing in Albus’ hand. They are synergy and sensuality as Huldi somehow finds just the right songs that resonate within Albus’ body. Albus hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of Huldi’s jeans as he moves sinuously behind the master at the helm.

 

At a very random point in the night, Albus lifts one earpiece of Huldi’s headphones to ask, “How do you know that Marcus is a pain slut? What _is_ a pain slut?  Have you fucked him?”

 

Huldi turns away from the console to answer, giving Albus a pointed look and a mysterious grin, “I’ve been with Marcus several times, but he has yet to earn my cock.”

 

Albus tilts his head and his confusion is all over his face.  “ _Earn_?”

 

“I like to make my subs work for it. It’s more fun that way. As a Dom, I love the power rush of domination more that the fleeting thrill of ordinary vanilla sex. And I don’t need to fuck boys to dominate them.”

 

In Albus’ head, Huldi is speaking another language – it’s not English or German – it’s the language of Kink, of which he’s pitifully ignorant.  Though he can deduce the meaning of these words – _Dom, sub, pain slut_ – his curiosity has already been piqued and he wants to know more. 

 

He very much wants Huldi to take him home and demonstrate the meaning of those words.

 

Albus presses himself against Huldi, slides his hand beneath sweat-dampened black fabric and keens hotly into his mouth, “ _Show me_.”

 

Last call can’t come soon enough. The quick drive to Huldi’s flat in his BMW isn’t fast enough.  The distance between the door and the bedroom isn’t short enough.  The taste of Huldi’s kiss alone will never, ever be enough.


	8. Scorpius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I fucked up and I posted chapters out of sequence and didn't realize until now, days and days later. I posted chapter 8 before 7. I've no idea how this got all screwed up. Apologies! It's all fixed now. If you've read this prior to July 17 2015, you read it in the wrong order. Sorry!!

**_“Oh I miss the kiss of treachery”_ **

 

 

“You’re sure you won’t come with me?” Scorpius asks, somehow managing to mumble around a piece of toast wedged in his mouth, while rushing to put on his jeans.

 

Albus’ reply is garbled with sleep that he’s still desperately clinging to.  “Am I sure I don’t want to get out of bed at the arse crack of dawn to spend the day with my brother? Yeah.  I’m sure.”

 

“With _me,_ you lazy dolt,” Scorpius teases, wiping the toast crumbs from his lips before pressing a kiss to Albus’ cheek, “You’d be spending the day with me at work. James will just happen to be there.”

 

“I’ll pass, love,” Albus rasps, pulling the bed covers more tightly around him.  “I’m still getting used to the time difference.”

 

Scorpius ruffles Albus’ bed-mussed hair and says, “You’ll stop by later, though – won’t you?”

 

“I’ll try, but I doubt I’m leaving this bed today,” Albus mumbles with half his face in the pillow.

 

Albus is tired.  Scorpius gets that.  His husband just got home yesterday and is probably dealing with exhaustion on top of the jet lag. But it’s Scorpius’ first day working with Albus’ brother.  He’s just a bit disappointed that Albus couldn’t be arsed to get out of bed to see him off.

 

“If I can manage to leave James by himself for a moment, I’ll pop in around tea to check on you,” Scorpius offers.

 

Albus opens one eye and smiles at Scorpius fondly. “Awh, you don’t have to, babe, I’ll be okay.  Good luck today. Try not to murder my brother. But I won’t blame you if you do.”

 

 

Albus doesn’t stop by.  He doesn’t even call to check on Scorpius. Scorpius is the one who has to text Albus for moral support when he feels like he really will murder James Potter with a teakettle to the head or a cup of Arsenic.

 

Scorpius is tired too.  He’s tired of Albus not making an effort. Scorpius has followed Albus around the world several times over.  But his husband can’t floo over to his own brother’s house?  It’s bollocks, Scorpius thinks, as he’s quietly seething in a threadbare armchair, having abandoned James for a much-needed break after preparing tea. 

 

He’s not sure which Potter he’s more annoyed with right now – the rude, pain-in-the-arse prima donna, or the other self-centered, inconsiderate bastard.  It’s funny how similar Albus and his brother are when one get’s right down to their core, despite the superficial differences in their personalities.

 

Scorpius flips through an old magazine lying around and comes upon an advertisement he’d shot.  It was his very first print advert.  He was posing with a girl and a Jaguar – a car, not an animal, though just as intimidating.  He remembers doing that shoot and being incredibly nervous as his mother watched, making sure that her _special little boy_ wasn’t being taken advantage of.  He remembers that he wanted Albus to come support him.  But Albus chose to go to band rehearsal instead.

 

Scorpius should have seen it then, that Albus would always put his career before Scorpius.  Really, Scorpius should’ve seen it when Albus left him at Hogwarts to tour for the first time.

 

Scorpius takes out his mobile phone and prepares to send a scathing message.  He scrolls back in the message history thread to read the last few exchanges they’d had. And a couple of them dig at his curiosity.

 

Thursday:

 

_It’s done! Finished the album! Coming home!_

_But first, going out to celebrate with the boys._

Scorpius had followed up with congratulations and questions about exactly when Albus would be coming home.  All of which went unanswered.

 

 

Friday:

 

_In LA for another day.  Sorry._

 

_Have to re-record vocal tracks._

 

This time, Scorpius had ignored the message. Albus had phoned later that night, sounding slightly off (perhaps high?) and all-too eager to put some distance between them. And then another phone call on Saturday, in which Albus bowed out of going to dinner with Alexa and Duston, claiming to be visiting his brother.  Albus was so quick to get off the phone that Scorpius didn’t have time to tell him about his new job. 

 

 

Finally, Sunday:

 

_Still at Jamie’s. Back to London tonight for the show._

 

 

It would’ve been nice to be invited to the Brit awards. Not that Scorpius would have gone out the night before his first day on the job.  It’s the thought that counts.  And Scorpius is beginning to see that Albus only ever thinks of himself.

 

Something bothers him about the sudden change in plans every step of the way over the course of the previous week. Why would the band celebrate the completion of the album, and then re-record something the next day? Why would Albus, who doesn’t particularly give a shit about his brother, feel the need to go all the way to Hogsmeade to visit, knowing that Scorpius would be taking care of James very soon?

 

These questions bother Scorpius enough for him to investigate.  But instead of asking Albus, and likely instigating a fight which he doesn’t feel like dealing with right now on top of dealing with James, he makes a phone call to Los Angeles.

 

“Hello, this is William Fox.  I’m calling on behalf of The White Lies.  I’m working on their accounts, and I see a discrepancy regarding the length of time they’d booked the studio.  Could you tell me what day they completed recording?”

 

After being transferred several times, Scorpius finally gets an answer.  “Thursday the nineteenth. Their producer continued to work on the album until Sunday, but the band wasn’t here.”

 

Scorpius feels his stomach drop. He asks, just so he’s clear, “Can I confirm that the band was not in the studio recording on Friday the twentieth?”

 

“That’s correct, sir.  In other words, the invoice should reflect studio time only through the nineteenth, but the services of the producer through the twenty-second. I’ll double check the invoice and email it to you with corrections, if need be.”

 

He thoughtlessly lets his mobile phone fall from his hands onto the floor, pulls his legs onto the seat cushion of the chair, and hugs his knees to his chest.

 

Scorpius doesn’t know how to handle this. He’s in shock, but at the same time, he’s not surprised.  He had suspected that things were not as they seemed, but he had hoped with all of his heart that those suspicions were unfounded.  It was like a kick to the stomach to find out that Albus had indeed been lying.

 

_You will not cry, Scorpius Malfoy.  You are stronger than that.  You are The Ice Prince. You are indestructible._

 

He’ll be damned if James finds him in here crying – the wanker would probably think it was his doing and be proud of himself. Scorpius won’t give him the satisfaction.  He flicks his wand at the door to lock it, and cries anyway.

 

Albus Potter is a liar.  Scorpius has always known this. In fact, he always rather liked that about him – how he could be so sweet on the outside and such a devious little rascal on the inside.  It is what made Albus fun and endlessly amusing to Scorpius.  But Scorpius never imagined the day would come when he wouldn’t be in on the lie – when he would not be an accomplice, but the one being deceived.

 

The lie only gets deeper. 

 

Scorpius fabricates another inquiry – this one, about a lost jacket.  “Did Albie maybe leave it here when he visited this weekend?” he asks Teddy at the end of the work day.

 

Teddy tilts his head, confused.  “Albie wasn’t here this weekend.  Perhaps he left it in L.A.?”

 

If Albus is up to something, he’s doing a rubbish job of hiding it.  It’s unlike him to be so sloppy with his alibi.  Scorpius knows how sneaky Albus can be, since they spent much of their lives being sneaky _together_. Something is wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. And Scorpius can’t shake the feeling that his husband really is avoiding him.

 

He swallows down a renewed upwelling of tears before stepping through the floo.  He goes back to the London townhouse that he and Albus are calling home until renovations on Malfoy Manor are complete.  They hadn’t been home much – Traversing the globe on separate routes to follow their careers hadn’t allowed for a sedentary lifestyle. There isn’t much furniture, since most of it is at the estate in Wiltshire. The majority of their meals were take-away eaten upon the kitchen island, so bringing a dining room table and chairs hadn’t been necessary.

 

Scorpius pads quietly through the dark, silent sitting room. His first thought is an angry one – _of course, that lying motherfucker isn’t even home._   But then music whispers through the emptiness, and a soft light catches his eye in the dining room.  He finds Albus on the floor with his acoustic guitar, sitting on a large blanket, surrounded by dozens of candles.  He’s got a picnic laid out for dinner.

 

When Albus looks up at Scorpius, his smile is the light of the brightest star – his Polaris.  His eyes are verdant and true.  Those eyes have never lied to Scorpius.  Those eyes _couldn’t_ lie to Scorpius. In them, he finds everything he’s ever loved about Albus.

 

An overwhelming surge of emotion forces a stream of tears from Scorpius’ eyes.  “You still love me, then?”

 

Albus’ brow furrows worriedly.  “Of course, I love you.  Why wouldn’t I still love you?”

 

Scorpius sinks to his knees and folds his arms tightly around the back of Albus’ neck, disregarding the guitar in his lap. “I missed you so much,” he breathes out.

 

Albus buries his face into Scorpius’ chest and splays his palm over his back.  “I miss you like crazy, Scor,” he says softly, his voice coarsened with subtle despair.

 

It doesn’t go unnoticed that Albus uses the present tense. _I miss you_. 

 

For now, Scorpius will let go of his suspicions and his own insecurities to help Albus put that feeling in the past. “I’m here, Albie… I’m here.”

 

The guitar is set aside, along with dinner. Scorpius wants to show Albus how very present he is.  He wants to appreciate the effort that Albus _does_ make. He wants Albus to prove that his lies were not meant to hurt him.  But Scorpius won’t confront him.  Not tonight. He’ll give Albus a chance to come clean.

 

When Scorpius climbs into Albus’ lap and gently holds his face in his hands, he sees something broken and weary – something that takes a little of the youthful sparkle out of his eyes, something that creases his brow – it’s slight, but it’s there. 

 

Scorpius wants to make it disappear, but he doesn’t know where to begin, so he starts with a kiss.  But he doesn’t know how to smooth out the lines, how to put the glimmer back into Albus’ eyes.  Scorpius wonders if anyone ever can.  He wonders if this is the beginning of the end – the end of their innocence and their childhood and their fairytale.

 

The love they make on the dining room floor is sweet and unhurried.  The candles that surround them create a galaxy of stars, like the sky they used to lie beneath on stolen nights at Hogwarts.  Scorpius delves deeply, searching Albus for a reason, probing for an answer.

 

What he finds is more upsetting than uncovering Albus’ deception.  For Scorpius realizes that Albus isn’t just lying with his words.  Albus is lying to Scorpius with his body. On the surface, it’s undetectable. Albus arches into every thrust with reverence and rapturous pleasure to the point of tears – it’s been a while, for sure.  He moans Scorpius’ name like a prayer and folds himself around Scorpius’ body with selfishness that’s completely welcomed.  With every kiss, Albus wordlessly whispers, _mine_.

 

Scorpius knows that he belongs to Albus. The wedding ring on his finger is almost superfluous.  But something needy underlies Albus’ movements – something desperately hungry. And Scorpius wonders if he’s just not giving Albus everything that he could - everything that Albus wants.

 

Their release is synchronous, as always – their bodies are still as attuned to one another as ever. Scorpius gazes down at his husband as shallow, rapid breaths slow to a deep, contented surge and fall, surge and fall, surge and fall.  He brushes the dark, damp fringe of Albus’ hair from his forehead.

 

Usually, when Albus comes, his smile is demurely crooked, as if he never stopped being a bashful teenager.  But that coquettish grin is conspicuously absent. In its place is an expression that Scorpius can’t read.  The corner of Albus’ lip is caught between his teeth and his brow is creased as if he’s in turmoil – not in post coital afterglow.

 

Before Scorpius can ask what’s troubling him, Albus kisses him hard into silence.  Perhaps it’s a calculated move.  When they roll onto their sides and stare silently at one another as they sometimes do after sex, unanswered questions linger on Scorpius’ tongue with the familiar brine of Albus’ sweat.

 

_What are you hiding from me, Albus Potter?_

 

“What do you want?” Scorpius murmurs. It’s a vague question, and he knows it. Albus knows it.

 

“I want… _you_.”

 

Albus’ eyes are lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Albus being Scorpius' Polaris was borrowed from ColorfulStabwound with humble gratitude.
> 
> Comments? Questions? I always reply back. Feedback is always welcome.


	9. Albus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter definitely warrants the Explicit rating and is the reason for many of the tags. If you are worried that you might get squicked, please reacquaint yourself with said tags.
> 
> Enjoy. ;)
> 
> Extra special thanks to ColorfulStabwound for beta reading this chapter multiple times. It was a hard one to write.

_“And the sound that it makes_

_When it cuts in deep”_

 

The taste of fear is acrid on Albus’ tongue. His skin is wet and electrified with alarm.  He is reacting out of instinct – the innate sense of danger telling him that he should not be in this situation, that he should escape, that this is wrong.

 

He’s on his knees in the darkness with his wrists held tightly behind his back.  Dread sets in.

 

He has the fleeting thought that he should have alerted his band mates, who were all too complicit with his bad behavior tonight.

 

_If I’m not back by tomorrow, call the police._

The message lingers behind a darkened screen, unsent on his mobile phone that’s in his jacket pocket on the floor somewhere. This is not the first mistake Albus has made tonight.  It is just one in a long string of reckless decisions motivated by dark curiosity and enabled by excessive alcohol, drugs, loneliness, and misplaced morals.

 

 

The burn of the rope rasping against delicate skin sends another surging wave of panic through him as his bindings coil tightly around his wrists.  He is swiftly losing control of himself and of the situation, if he ever had any at all. But he finds himself unready to fully relinquish it to a near stranger.  His breaths come in shallow, rapid bursts of hot air in the sweltering night.

 

Huldi is standing behind him.  His lips ghost behind Albus’ ear.  His whisper is warm and meant to reassure. “Ssssh… You’re going to be alright.”

 

But Albus is not completely convinced. He’s nearly hyperventilating and wide-eyed like a stunned animal caught in the talons of a predator, hit with the despair of inevitability.  He is about to be devoured.

 

Huldi comes around to loom over Albus and gazes down at him from behind a half curtain of fringe. He reaches down to cradle Albus’ head in his hand.  “Look at me,” he says quietly.  He doesn’t have to use force to command Albus’ attention.  His imperious, blue eyes effectively hold him in place.  “You’re alright.  Take a deep breath.”

 

They take that deep breath together. But while Huldi’s breath is a serene inhalation and exhalation, Albus’ is harsh and shuddering.

 

“There.  See? You’re perfect.” Huldi smiles brightly and Albus finds it almost more disturbing than comforting.  But Albus calms down just the same.  “I promise you, I’m not going to do anything to you that you don’t want.”

 

Huldi presses a kiss to the top of Albus’ head before crouching and reaching around to tighten the rope at Albus’ back. The rope cuts deeply into his wrists and makes him wince. 

 

“How do you know what I want?” Albus asks. The fear in his voice sounds unfamiliar in his own ears.  He wonders what point in the night he had lost his defiance.

 

“I’m good at figuring that out,” Huldi says with a self-assured grin that does _things_ to Albus. “Also, you’re going to tell me.”

 

“I have no bloody clue what I want,” Albus admits quietly.

 

“You know what you want. You just haven’t accepted it yet.” Another soft kiss, this one lingering, is pressed to the side of Albus’ neck, and he can’t help leaning into it.  “We’re going to figure it out together.  Trust me.  It’s going to be fun.”

 

Huldi tugs on the ropes again, testing their strength. “Is this too tight?”

 

Albus whimpers, but shakes his head. “Not exactly.” Yes, it’s tight. Yes, it hurts. But Albus is surprised to find that he doesn’t entirely mind.

 

“This is the last time I’m going to ask you,” Huldi says, not unkindly, “This is also the last time I’m going to respond to you with mercy unless you use the right words.”

 

There’s something ominous about what Huldi is saying, and Albus feels his cock twitch in his jeans, betraying the secrets from the dark corners of his heart that he didn’t even know existed until now.

 

Huldi sets the ground rules in his pleasing, German lilt, sparking a fire inside Albus, “If you cry out, I won’t stop. If you plead, I won’t go easy. Even if you tell me to stop, I won’t stop.”

 

The rush of terror that had flooded Albus’ veins now mingles with the surge of arousal.  Huldi’s words have Albus fully hard, and he hadn’t even touched him. Albus is just a bit humiliated by this and is thankful that he’s still got his jeans on, though everything else had been discarded between kisses en route from the car to his current position on the living room floor.

 

Huldi’s manner is cool, even, and tinged with seduction as he explains, “You are going to tell me the color of your consent and your tolerance, and I _will_ respond in kind.”  He rises and moves slowly to stand behind Albus.

 

The pad of his finger traces a faint line across Albus’ back, from shoulder to shoulder.  Albus is so hypersensitive right now that the slight touch makes him keen for more. Huldi continues, “Green tells me that you like what I’m doing and that you want more – it is up to my discretion whether or not to give it to you.”

 

That same finger retraces the path it had taken, but this time, Huldi’s blunt nail scrapes along Albus’ flushed skin. “Yellow tells me that you’re reaching your limit and that I should continue, but I should not push you further.”  He’s not scratching hard enough to cause any pain, but just enough to make Albus shiver.

 

 “Red tells me you’ve had enough and that you want me to stop.” Huldi abruptly stops touching him before Albus wants him to.

 

Albus asks, “So I’m supposed to yell out colors every five seconds?” The thought of it is disappointingly un-sexy to Albus.

 

Huldi walks another slow semi-circle to stand in front of Albus as he explains,  “You won’t, because I’ll start out light and easy. And you will find that you want to test your limits.  Push your boundaries.” A knowing smirk twists the corner of Huldi’s mouth.  “You’ll be surprised how long you can go before you use your words.”

 

Albus has always been one to rise to a challenge, and this one is no different.  Something about Huldi’s grin inspires Albus to want to show him just how far he can go, how much he can take, even though he’s not sure what his limits really are.

 

“You ready?” Huldi asks enticingly. Even if Albus isn’t quite ready, Huldi could compel him to be ready with very little effort.

 

Albus nods slowly, a worried expression still pinching his features.

 

Like a switch has been flipped, Huldi’s demeanor darkens considerably, which manages to put the fearful quickness back in Albus’ pulse.  Huldi leans in to breathe against the side of Albus’ neck, ghosting his parted lips almost imperceptibly below Albus’ ear.  He says nothing for a good, long minute.  In the silence, the tension becomes palpable.  Huldi’s mouth hovers teasingly above Albus’ jugular vein, making Albus yearn for another reassuring kiss. He can feel the slow, collected rhythm of Huldi’s breath and can’t help but compare it to the shallow, quick pace of his own.

 

“Do you know what you are?”  Huldi’s words are spoken with seductive malice as his mouth hovers over Albus’ jawline, and travels up to his flushed cheek.

 

“No,” Albus answers, barely audibly, angling his head slightly to express his need for contact – a need that’s been exacerbated by the lingering effects of the drug he’d taken earlier. Not to mention, Huldi’s impressive ability to tease, as he drifts just out of reach.

 

Huldi’s open mouth brushes against Albus’ cheek. It is barely a touch.  He lingers just long enough for Albus’ heartbeat to skip anxiously, long enough for Albus’ breath to hitch in anticipation of a kiss.

 

But that kiss never comes. 

 

Instead, Huldi backs away a few inches, and spits harshly on Albus’ face.  Hot, thick saliva splatters his cheek where he had expected a kiss.  Albus flinches with shock and humiliation.

 

Huldi whispers hotly into Albus’ ear, “You are nothing.” It sounds like the sibilant warning of a snake making its deadly intentions known before striking.

 

Albus has barely enough time to react with a sharp intake of air before Huldi smacks him on the opposite cheek. He is startled more than hurt, though the sting is very real, and the involuntary whimper that escapes him is terribly embarrassing. 

 

Huldi, however, doesn’t react.  His expression is cold and blank.

 

If it had been anyone else in a more conventional situation, Albus would have struck back – bound hands, be damned. Growing up with an arsehole of a brother, Albus was no stranger to verbal degradation and a smack upside the head. He was never one to wilt and turn the other cheek.  On the contrary, it would take very little to send Albus flying off the handle.

 

Albus is surprised by how easily self-restraint is coming to him now.  Perhaps it’s because he wants to prove to himself and to Huldi that he can take it like a champ.

 

“Say it,” Huldi commands quietly.

 

Albus blinks up at him in confusion. “Erm…” 

 

He doesn’t even have the chance to ask for clarification before Huldi makes things glaringly clear.  He smacks Albus on the same cheek, considerably harder this time, and it actually hurts.  The pain sends a surge of hot fury through his whole body, and _now_ Albus has to work hard at restraining himself. A part of him really wants to head-butt the superior arsehole that has just slapped him in the face. When Albus glares up at Huldi, the other man just smirks with mild amusement.

 

“What are you?” he asks again.

 

This time Albus knows what he’s expected to say, but the defiance that had been dormant all night emerges. Just like at school, he can’t help but be smart-mouthed and cheeky.  “I’m a motherfucking rockstar,” Albus drawls slowly with an impish grin.

 

His sass earns him nothing but a small, amused snort from Huldi. Albus wonders what it would take to make Huldi break that emotionless demeanor and get angry. Huldi takes Albus’ chin in his hand, not gently, and forces him to look up.  He’s standing close, holding Albus’ gaze as firmly as he’s holding his chin. He puckers his lips and lets a long, thick strand of saliva drip down towards Albus’ face.  Albus instinctively screws his eyes shut just before it hits him in the middle of his knit brows and slides down his temple.

 

“You are nothing,” Huldi annunciates harshly, never raising his voice above a whisper.

 

This time, Albus feels a confusing mélange of disgust, arousal, and humiliation.  It doesn’t matter that he’s famous, or that he has sold out hundreds of shows, or that he makes more money than somebody his age should reasonably have. It doesn’t matter that his name is Potter, and that he’s the son of a hero.  To Huldi, he’s nothing – at least, right here and right now. He’s not expected to be a charismatic superstar or a gracious pillar of wizarding society. He’s only expected to obey - and that notion is so _fucking_ liberating.

 

Albus swallows down his pride.  He opens his eyes and proclaims, devoid of emotion, “I am nothing.”

 

Huldi’s smirk brightens to a genuine little smile. “Good boy,” he says, speaking to Albus as if he’s a well-behaved child.  The back of his hand affectionately caresses the same cheek he had struck and Albus feels like he could melt.  He has the approval of millions of fans, but right now, only Huldi’s approval matters.

 

 “Tell me your color,” he instructs.

 

Without hesitation, Albus replies, “Green,” and adds with a challenging little grin, “Bring it, Huldi.”

 

The fingers that are still holding his chin tighten as Huldi corrects him.  “Not Huldi. Here, you will call me _Sir_.”

 

Like a good, eager student, Albus says, “Yes, Sir,” hoping it will earn him another doting caress or some other positive reinforcement. But Huldi isn’t here to coddle Albus and Albus has just consented to more torture. 

 

Huldi shoves Albus’ face away and steps back. His expression is unreadable as he pulls off his shirt, unbuckles his belt.  The belt snakes through the loops of his jeans as he pulls it agonizingly slow. The action has Albus biting the corner of his bottom lip in anticipation as he watches raptly. Huldi doesn’t open his jeans, but instead lets them hang well bellow his waist, exposing the prominent lines of his hipbones. Albus’ hunger colors his cheeks as he thinks about licking every sharp angle and soft curve of Huldi’s body.  He wants to flick his tongue against the metal rings adorning Huldi’s pierced flesh.

 

From the smug look on Huldi’s face, Albus knows that Huldi can read him like an open, large-print book. 

 

“Eager little slut,” Huldi mutters amusedly.  

 

In another situation, this would have been playful banter. But the way these words come out of Huldi’s mouth leaves no doubt that they were meant to humiliate – and they do. Albus’ face flushes hotter, darkening his rosy color.

 

Huldi folds the belt in half and tests it in his palm. Albus tenses from the _smack smack smack_ sound of leather on skin and swallows hard. Not only is the belt leather, it has two rows of metal grommet holes along the entire length.  He braces himself as Huldi disappears behind him. He’s already digging through his buried mental cache of useful spells, trying to remember the ones he will likely need to cover up the evidence of tonight’s activities.

 

Albus soon realizes that Huldi had been marking his intentions and staking his claim when he had scratched a faint line across his back, for the belt is applied to the same place.  He winces superfluously.  It’s just a mere clap on the back – a warning bite.

 

“See?  Easy,” Huldi assures him.  What he says next is anything but reassuring.  “Let’s see how far I can take you.”

 

The next strike is significantly harder. Albus winces again, but this time, he feels the sting of leather on flesh and the bite of metal. The next one comes down across the shoulder blades with equal firmness, and still, he takes it in his stride with just a flinch.  But when Huldi smacks him forcefully on the top of his shoulder with a sickening sound of abused flesh, Albus has to bite his lip to keep from crying out.  His whole body tenses and the sensation of pain sends a rush of heat down to his lap.  The following blow to his upper arm burns like a branding iron and makes him whimper through clenched teeth. Somehow – and Albus can’t figure out how – his cock is hard as _fuck_.

 

There’s no hiding it now.

 

“Get up,” Huldi commands him firmly.

 

Albus is relieved to have his knees off the unforgivingly hard wood.  He stands, and there is no mistaking the erection straining against the inside of his zipper. The metal buckle of Huldi’s belt clanks against the floor when Huldi abandons it in favor of opening Albus’ jeans with maddeningly gentle hands.  Albus is desperate for Huldi to touch him, and Huldi knows this. And because Huldi knows this, he is careful to apply very little pressure to that firm protrusion tenting Albus’ underpants as he reaches around, opens the zipper, and pushes down his jeans. The jeans are so tight that they don’t fall very far – just bellow Albus’ bottom.

 

Huldi rests his chin on Albus’ shoulder where the belt had been applied, and the sensation of warm skin on warm skin soothes the lingering sting of the lashes he’d taken.  Huldi drawls in his German lilt, “You’re getting off on this – aren’t you?”

 

Albus’ nod is subtle.  Really, there’s no need to answer.  One can’t get more obvious than a leaking erection that darkens the front of white underpants.

 

“Who’s an eager little slut?” Huldi asks patronizingly.

 

Albus isn’t sure he’s supposed to answer.

 

Huldi smacks his cheek before holding it aggressively, and asks again, more firmly this time.  “Who’s an eager little slut?”

 

“I’m an eager little slut, Sir,” Albus replies. He can’t help but smirk when he says it – admitting it is so deliciously deviant.

 

“Good boy,” Huldi commends him quietly before turning Albus’ face just far enough for him to scrape his teeth upon Albus’ jaw – another sharp kiss that’s not really enough of a kiss to satisfy Albus’ need.

 

Huldi hooks his thumbs into the waist of Albus’ underpants and Albus holds his breath anxiously.  He stretches the elastic and lets it smack against the skin at Albus’ sides. The next time he does it, he pulls the elastic out from the front, freeing Albus’ cock. He keeps the elastic stretched out, hovering over Albus’ erection.

 

“Mmm, I remember this cock,” Huldi purrs, “Do you remember fucking me, Albie?”

 

Albus angles his face towards Huldi’s as he answers. “Of course.”

 

“You didn’t remember my face the other day, but you remember my tight arse.”  Huldi’s words are tinged with bitterness, sending a rush of fear up Albus’ spine.

 

“But, I…” Albus feels compelled to lie, but he knows that Huldi will see right through him.  So the lie dies on his tongue.

 

“You won’t forget me this time,” Huldi asserts darkly before letting the elastic retract sharply.  It smacks hard against Albus’ cock, causing him to cry out and double over in pain. Huldi’s whisper is sinister in Albus’ ear, “You will never forget me.”

 

Albus is beginning to understand that this is more than role-play, more than exploration of kink, more than a sadistic sexual game. This is vengeance. And the fear makes his skin dead cold. He fully regrets not sending that text message to his bandmates.  “Huldi, please, don’t,” he whimpers.

 

But then Huldi presses his lips to Albus’ neck and kisses him properly this time, effectively silencing his protest.  He firmly takes Albus’ hardness in his hand and strokes him slowly as he spoils Albus with wet kisses dripping along the side of his throat, down to the junction of his neck and shoulder. 

 

A keen little moan escapes from Albus’ mouth. “Oh, _fuck_.”

 

Huldi chuckles softly against Albus’ skin as he plies his cock. “Thought I scared you there for a second, slut,” he admits.

 

 “You did,” Albus confesses breathily.

 

“Good.”  Huldi gives Albus’ cock a sharp tug, nips his shoulder, and pulls away, leaving Albus weak in the knees and yearning.

 

Huldi swipes his belt off the floor, takes Albus firmly by the arm and leads him to the darkened kitchen.  The lights of the electronic screens fronting all the appliances cast an eerie blue glow over the room.  He bends Albus over a barstool with the force of his hand splayed on the back of Albus’ neck.  Albus would be lying if he said he wasn’t still a little bit scared.  He’s unsure of Huldi’s motivation and a little less convinced that he’s safe.

 

“What are you going to do to me?” It doesn’t hurt to ask, especially if it will ease his racing mind.

 

“I’m going to give you what you want,” Huldi replies, as he takes Albus firmly by the hips and teasingly rubs the lap of his jeans against Albus’ covered bottom.  Before Albus can protest, Huldi quickly adds, “Well, some of it, at least. You haven’t earned all of it yet.”

 

Even though Albus had intended to tell the other that he couldn’t let Huldi fuck him, he finds himself disappointed. He can feel Huldi’s own erection tenting his jeans, pressed firmly (yet not firmly enough) against him.

 

Huldi’s fingers massage the tense muscles of Albus’ shoulders, pulling a quiet sigh from him.  But the soothing, calming sensation is quickly replaced as his fingers curl and scrape down the length of Albus’ back, scoring angry, red lines into his pale skin.  The abrasive burn inspires a pained groan, muffled behind grit teeth.

 

When Huldi’s fingers reach the small of Albus’ back, they curl into the waist of Albus’ underpants and pull the garment down. Huldi crouches, splays his fingers over the swell of Albus’ bottom, spits into the furrow, and bites into the soft flesh, making Albus gasp quietly.

 

Albus remembers the last time he and Huldi were in this position.  He remembers the delightfully deviant things Huldi did with his pierced tongue. And damn, if Albus isn’t desperate for it now.

 

“Remember to use your words,” Huldi says. He keeps his hands on Albus’ bottom when he rises.  “You’re going to need them.” With that, he spanks Albus _hard_.  The sound of skin on skin reverberates against the kitchen tile, and the sharp twinge penetrates deep, sending Albus forward, nearly toppling over the stool.

 

“Steady now, slut,” Huldi cautions him, holding him by the hips, “Keep your feet firmly on the ground or you’ll go head-first into the tile.  We wouldn’t want to send you home to your little husband looking like you’ve been in a fight.” He laughs mirthlessly. Of course, Huldi knows Albus is attached – he’s infamously married to the most notorious male model of the fashion scene.

 

Huldi might as well have punched Albus in the stomach by reminding him about Scorpius. 

 

This is something Scorpius can never give him. Both Huldi and Albus know it.

 

It’s what Albus needs to tell himself to justify his actions.  At the end of the day, it’s still full-blown adultery.  But the gravity of the situation won’t fully register.  Not tonight.  The only thing on his mind right now is the thrill of danger, his desperate thirst for self-destruction, and Huldi – only Huldi. Huldi makes damn sure of this.

 

The belt slaps brutally against Albus’ bottom – the sting of it is far worse than that of Huldi’s hand.  He grunts out an explicative.  The leather comes down hard, again and again, ravaging his delicate skin and searing his flesh.  Each strike is punctuated by a sound of anguish.

 

He can’t keep an accurate mental count of each blow. All he is aware of is the searing pain that blossoms from what seems like a hundred pinprick points of fire studding his body, from the nape of his neck all the way down to the back of his thighs – each point is a star, connected by electrified nerves and hot blood vessels, creating gruesome constellations of agony upon his body.

 

As dreadful as it is, the picture of welts, marks, and bruises is strikingly beautiful – Albus knows this because he can see it shining in Huldi’s eyes as he admires each new sickly color and grisly line he creates on the canvas of Albus’ body.  Albus feels just as impossibly adored as he is damaged, and he now knows what the boy in the cage must have felt.

 

He doesn’t know how many lashes he’s taken or how much harder Huldi has to strike him before he’s heavily courting that magic word. He wants to say _yellow_ , but instead he grunts through gnashed teeth, he moans breathily, he swears fluently, he writhes with each blow, and swallows his need for a reprieve out of demented determination.

 

The pain from all the previous abuse compounds the pain of each subsequent strike to the point where his tolerance is quickly waning. Sweat and involuntary tears sting his eyes and wet his face.  His consciousness becomes as fuzzy as his vision.

 

Finally, Huldi crouches down in front of Albus and meets his eyes.  “I can read you without you having to tell me your color, and I know you’ve reached your limit.” His expression is sympathetic – almost affectionate.

 

Albus’ gaze falls, ashamed to admit that Huldi is right, and also unwilling to disappoint him.

 

Huldi takes Albus’ chin to regain his full attention. “Or am I reading you wrong? Have I found myself another little pain slut?  Do you like this?”

 

Albus smiles lazily, for he is quite exhausted. “Just a bit.”

 

Huldi grins wryly.  “You like it, but you’ve had enough.  You can say it, Albie.  I won’t be disappointed.”

 

“Please stop now,” Albus says – his voice coming out quiet and ragged.  He knows it’s not the designated cue, but he wants to test Huldi now – to see how relentless he can truly be – to see if he’ll really honor those safe-words.

 

Huldi’s grin twists into a smirk. He knows Albus’ game. With an open palm, Huldi smacks him on the cheek so hard that Albus nearly falls over again. He feels it in his cheekbone and knows that it must have hurt Huldi’s hand almost as much.  That’s definitely going to leave a mark.  Albus’ involuntary tears flow anew while the look in Huldi’s eyes becomes dangerously sinister.

 

“Red,” Albus asserts weakly.

 

“I thought so,” Huldi says, sounding smug. “Test me again, slut, and see what happens,” he threatens, never raising his voice, but imparting his seriousness with just the look on his face.

 

 

Moments later, in the warm haze of dawn, Albus finds himself prostrate on Huldi’s bed.  The ropes that had bound his wrists are gone, and he’s stripped of all his clothes. Huldi is countering his cruelty with tenderness.  He rubs some sort of fragrant oil over Albus’ battered body that is supposed to help soothe the welts and bruises.  Albus thinks that Huldi’s touch does more to that effect, melting away the emotional trauma along with the physical.  Albus feels warm and tired, and the lingering burn upon his ravaged skin tingles – it’s oddly similar to the sensation of recovering after spending too much time at the beach.

 

Albus asks sleepily, “Was it real, or was it an act?”

 

“Why would you think it wasn’t real?” Huldi responds with another question as he gently massages between Albus’ shoulders with his oiled hands.

 

Albus doesn’t mince words.  “Well, one minute you’re a sadistic prat, and the next, you’re a sweetheart.  You weren’t like this when I met you.  Which one is the real you?”

 

Huldi, still wearing his jeans, casually drapes himself along his side upon the bed next to Albus and props his head up on his hand. Albus mirrors his companion’s pose.

 

“They’re both me, Albie.  People aren’t either sweet or sadistic.  We can be both.  We can be every flavor there is – even at the same time.  But most people suppress the parts of themselves that they are afraid won’t be accepted.  The part of me that you call _Sir_ has always been me. Even when I met you. It just hadn’t been actualized yet.”

 

“So I’ve always been an eager little pain slut?” Albus proposes with a slight grin, half joking.

 

A finger traces along Albus’ jawline as Huldi gazes at him with a familiar expression of adoration that makes Albus’ heart contract with guilt.  “I’ve always seen it in you, Albie - That beautiful little demon inside you.  I hear it in your music, in the way that you sing. You’ve tasted the liberation that pain gives you – the emotional freedom that’s afforded to you when you are nothing instead of something.  And you are hungry for more.”

 

Albus lets his eyelids fall and takes a deep, shuddering breath through parted lips. Huldi’s stirring words unlock a secret yearning inside of Albus that had been latent – a hunger Albus hadn’t even been aware of. Albus so very badly wants to be this person – the little demon that flouts everyone’s expectations and follows his every desire and fantasy to fruition, to excess, even if it takes him to dark and ugly places, even if it means hurting people.  Albus is desperate for it.  He’s so fucking tired of working so damn hard to please everybody.

 

Like an affectionate kitten, Huldi nuzzles Albus’ face and whispers hotly against his cheek, “That eager little slut – he’s real. He’s _you_.”

 

Albus grabs Huldi by the back of the neck, and kisses him hard.

 

The mouth and the body beneath him yield in ways that Albus wishes he could.  It was easier to succumb to desires that Albus knew Scorpius was incapable of fulfilling. But this – this is treading upon Scorpius’ territory.  This feels more like being unfaithful than anything else they’d done.

 

There is a frozen moment of regret when Albus’ mouth stills.  Huldi takes advantage of Albus’ hesitation and seizes it.  He rolls Albus onto his back as their lips clash, pinning his wrists to the bed. Albus can’t help but submit to Huldi’s quiet, seductive authority.  His legs part as Huldi nestles between them, his jeans chafing painfully against Albus’ reawakening arousal.

 

But Huldi won’t fuck him. Albus will want it more than he has the right to, but Huldi won’t give it to him.  Albus hasn’t earned it yet.  But he’s earned _something._ Huldi slides down Albus’ slicked body and Albus does nothing to stop him.  He feels entitled to pleasure at this point.

 

Huldi ghosts his lips against the aching length of Albus’ arousal and declares in a sibilant drawl, “You are _my_ eager, little slut.”

 

Huldi teases Albus’ cock with his tongue and does maddeningly scrumptious things with the metal stud that has Albus leaking pre-come profusely. But he won’t permit Albus’ release. He’ll play with him until Albus’ erection grows painful beneath his touch. He will bring Albus right to the edge and leave him hanging on the precipice.  He will tease and tantalize and withhold and repeat in a maddening pattern designed to torture without the need for whips. 

 

It is a methodical ritual, orchestrated to bind Albus to Huldi stronger than any rope can.

 

 

Albus feels compelled to respond, “ _I’m yours”_ – but he knows it’s impossible and he bites his lip hard, as if self-inflicted pain will make the horrible fact less true. This ceased to be just a one-night-stand long ago and there is no return from this path towards destruction.

 

 

 

Albus doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until an insistent, vibrating buzz close to his head pesters him awake. It’s his mobile phone. Huldi is holding it up to his face, standing beside the bed, wearing just a pair of boxer briefs.

 

“It’s been blowing up for hours,” Huldi says tiredly, clearly cranky, “I can’t shut the fucking thing off.”

 

Albus takes the phone and groans, feeling the aftermath of last night in every muscle and bone.  The screen shows an endless list of text messages and missed calls that go back all the way to Thursday night after he’d gone to the club. _Scorpius. Connor.  Jamaal. Scorpius.  Miranda.  Scorpius. Miranda.  Miranda.  Miranda. Miranda._

The numerous messages from his agent snap him back into reality.  He jumps out of bed abruptly, nearly swooning from the light-headedness that the swift action causes. “Fuck.  I’m supposed to be on a plane to London in two hours,” he says, still not fully coherent, frantically trying to locate his clothes amongst the mess of ropes and bed sheets on the floor.

 

Huldi gently takes him by the wrists and stops his fruitless scramble.  “Albie,” he says, his voice quiet and soothing, “You’re not going anywhere.”

 

He takes Albus’ hands and laces their fingers together. Without drugs and alcohol as an enabler, it is a lot easier for Albus to see that he shouldn’t be doing this. 

 

“You haven’t come, so how can you go?” Huldi says, quirking a teasing little grin. 

 

Albus is a sucker for double entendre and giggles. “Though I really don’t fancy getting on a ten-hour flight with a massive case of blue balls, I _have_ to go.”

 

“Who says you _have_ to go?  Is it what you really want?” Huldi asks seductively, letting Albus’ hand subtly graze the bulge at the front of his briefs, “Isn’t _this_ what you want?”

 

A pink flush quickly spreads across Albus’ cheeks as he groans the other’s name, feeling pulled in two opposite directions across the world.

 

Huldi hadn’t come last night either, and his erection is starkly evident behind the stretched cotton.  Albus can’t help but rest his palm against the bulge. Huldi’s firm grasp around Albus’ wrist won’t allow him to do otherwise.

 

“You want to stay with me.  You want me to teach you what you have to do to earn my cock. Don’t you, slut?” Huldi’s words are not an invitation – they are a softly spoken command.

 

 

Albus finds himself phoning his husband while his cock is once again under the sweet torment of Huldi’s lingual piercing.

 

On the fourth ring, he prepares to leave a voice message, but Scorpius answers.  “Hey,” Scorpius says flatly, not as enthusiastic as Albus would like.

 

“Unf, I’m so glad you picked up,” Albus says with arousal heavily coloring his voice.

 

This scene is so wrong in all the delicious ways that Scorpius could never be wrong, even before the convention of monogamy and cohabitation and marriage.  But Albus doesn’t want to be right anymore.

 

Huldi gazes up at Albus and strategically closes his mouth around Albus’ cock.  Albus has to swallow down a moan.  “I really wanted to hear your voice, baby,” he says to Scorpius.

 

Scorpius sounds tired.  It’s nighttime in London.  He says he’s sick, but he sounds more than physically run down, and Albus worries. The more invested in the conversation Albus becomes, the more concern he shows for his husband, the more fervently Huldi works on his cock.  The feeling of being pulled in two directions is so strong that Albus could break in two, leaving both men with just a fragment of himself – much less than what each person wants or deserves.

 

When Scorpius asks if Albus will be coming home when expected, Albus hastily fabricates a sloppy excuse for not coming home right away, and the voice that comes out of his mouth doesn’t sound like his own.

 

Albus has never lied to Scorpius.

 

More frightening than how easy it had been to lie to his beloved, is how little remorse he felt while doing it.

 

 

Albus will spend the next two days tied up in various intricate knots, bound to different pieces of furniture.  Huldi will acquaint him with the spectrum of delight that one can experience with the appropriate tools and an experienced hand to wield them. Albus won’t earn a proper fuck. He won’t even earn a proper orgasm. But he will love every tense minute of his physical and emotional torment.  He will feel more real than he ever has on stage, more true to his nature than in the loving arms of his best friend. 

 

When he leaves Los Angeles, he will leave unsatisfied.

 

Which is exactly the way Huldi wants him.


	10. James

~ 10: James ~

 

_“The holding up on bended knees”_

 

Teddy is rushing through the floo this morning with an apple in his mouth and a trail of marked exam parchments fluttering after him in his wake.  No time for kisses today. James feels stupid for letting that bother him.  He has gone an unhealthy number of days without sex – what’s a few hours without a kiss? Not that Teddy’s kisses are really worth waiting for lately. 

 

James wonders when it happened – when his relationship had become so sterile. 

 

A minute later, instead of his aide stepping through the floo into the sitting room, Duston arrives wearing his white healer’s robes, wielding a clip board. 

 

“Malfoy finally quit?” James asks. He doesn’t feel as triumphant about this as he should.  If he’s honest with himself, he might even feel slightly disappointed.  Scorpius has been the least bothersome aide of them all, which is not to say that he is anything but bothersome.  Still, James has grown accustomed to having Malfoy around these past several weeks.

 

Duston brushes the remnants of ash from his shoulder and replies, “Scor’s got a modeling gig today in London. Figured I’d fill in and do your monthly assessment while I’m at it.”

 

James sniffs with annoyance, but doesn’t say anything about the matter and just resigns himself to it.  In reality, he feels slighted.  He doesn’t like being somebody’s side job.  And maybe he’s a little bit jealous that Malfoy gets to do something glamorous in the big city while James is stuck in the quaint Hell of the Scottish Highlands.

 

Even though he’s gone through this routine many times before, James won’t make it easy for Duston today.  The only pleasure he has left in life is that of making people miserable, and if Malfoy isn’t here to be James’ punching bag, Healer Montague is going to have to suffice.

 

As Duston prods and pokes at James with various instruments, he asks him the usual series of questions.

 

“On a scale from one to ten, rate your general pain level today.”

 

James mutters with a bored sigh, “Negative fourteen.”

 

“How about now?” Duston manipulates James’ leg and applies pressure to his knee - another routine check. 

 

“Ouch! _Arsehole_ ,” James hisses, wincing as the pain shoots up and down his leg.

 

It may be routine, but it hurts like a bitch, and James scowls indignantly as if Duston had done it on purpose. Maybe he had.

 

“I could tell you that taking your pain potions would facilitate your recovery, but I tell you that every time I see you. So I’ll save my breath.” Duston smiles tightly as he scribbles something in James’ file.  “I’ll renew your prescription and owl it to the apothecary just the same. If you choose to spit it down the sink, that’s your problem.”

 

James doesn’t bother making excuses for the hundredth time.  If Duston doesn’t want to accept that James will not endure any lapse in clear-headedness in exchange for a pain-free day, then Duston can go fuck his prescription pad.

 

Duston goes on to test James’ range of motion with various exercises.  He asks the usual questions to assess James’ progress, and James can’t help boasting about how far he’s come.  Duston seems quite impressed, as he should be.  But when it comes time to walk, there’s nothing to brag about.  Each step is agony.  Each step is like trying to control parts of his body that have become detached, and he feels like a marionette when his legs wobble and give out beneath him.

 

“So you still need to regain some sensation and motor control from the waist down,” Duston assesses as he supports James by the shoulders.

 

James shrugs him off indignantly when he returns to his wheelchair.  “No shit. Are you going to write that down in my file?  _Patient is still a useless gimp_.”

 

Duston doesn’t bother to respond. He’s been taking James’ shit for quite some time and he’s perhaps more immune to it than even Malfoy. He pauses his line of questioning and holds his chin in thought.

 

“Be honest with me, James – I’m not trying to be a prick – Everything okay as far as your bowel control?  Urinary and erectile function?”  Duston looks James unwaveringly in the eye, perhaps conveying that the topic need not be a sensitive one, but one that can be discussed openly.

 

Still, it’s not something James wants to discuss with anybody, regardless of their medical training.  “Wouldn’t you like to know, Montague,” James drawls condescendingly.

 

“Well, yes,” Duston replies flatly, “I _am_ your primary healer and it is my job to help you.”

 

James sniffs.  “I can shit and piss just fine without your help, thank you very much.”

 

“Erectile function?” Duston asks again, not tiptoeing around the question in the least.  James does appreciate his candor.  It would be a far more humiliating question if Duston had shown any meekness.

 

“No, I don’t need help with that either. If you’re trying to chat me up, I will tell you right now that you’re not my type.  But I won’t say no to a hand job, if that’s what you’re getting at.”  James is being a dick. Duston knows that.

 

But it would seem that Duston is also aware that James is trying to skirt the issue.  “When was the last time you had intercourse or any sexual activity?” he presses on. “Actually, let me rephrase that – I forget that things are a bit different with homosexual sex. When was the last time you had a sustained erection?”

 

James isn’t coy in the least.  If Duston insists on asking very personal questions, James is going to make it as uncomfortable for him as possible.  “Teddy shagged the living fuck out of me this morning right on that chair you’re sitting on,” he declares with a smug grin, “In fact, if I’m not mistaken, there’s still a bit of his come on the cushion. I’d been saving it for Malfoy to clean up, but since he’s not here…”

 

It is, of course, all bullshit.  He and Teddy did not have sex this morning. Or this week, for that matter. And if he really thinks about it, it has been almost a month since their last awkward sexual encounter.

 

 

It happened on a Saturday.  James woke up before dawn, careful not to stir his sleeping companion when he got out of bed, put himself in his wheelchair, and quietly went about enacting a plan he had been working on for days. It wasn’t a special occasion – just a day that James knew Teddy wouldn’t have any commitments.

 

When Teddy woke up, there was breakfast on the table – his favorite – Eggs Benedict.  It was a gesture that James had hoped would make Teddy more amenable to the romantic day he had organized.  After breakfast, the bathtub had already been filled with scented bubbles. After Teddy helped James get in, James gazed up at Teddy mischievously and summoned him with a hooked finger.

 

Teddy giggled and shook his head. “We won’t both fit.”

 

“We’ll find a way,” James said.

 

Teddy undressed slowly, but not in the way that one teasingly strips off their clothing to excite a lover.  James could read it in Teddy’s eyes and in his hair, which was hot pink with excitement, but streaked through with yellowish blond fear. Teddy was nervous. James wanted to find it cute, but it just put extra pressure on him to not disappoint Teddy.

 

James knew that if he fucked this up, he’d never convince Teddy to attempt intimacy again for a long time.

 

It was a tight fit in the antique claw-footed tub, but they managed with James straddling Teddy’s lap.  James had accounted for how painful the pressure would be on his knees when he had envisioned this, and had taken a quarter-dose of his pain potion with breakfast.  It was just enough to take him down from painful to uncomfortable.  Of course, James wouldn’t let his discomfort show.

 

James kissed him slowly, easing him into deep snogging. Even with this courtesy, he could feel Teddy’s hesitation.  He didn’t want to do this if Teddy was just going to frustrate him as always.

 

He let his lips hover over Teddy’s as he whispered, “I don’t want you to kiss me like I’m your brother.  Kiss me like you fucking mean it.” 

 

It was almost vindictive - accusatory without really stirring up a fight. Teddy had been making James feel like a child lately. There was nothing more humiliating for a grown man.  James just wanted to feel desired again.  He expected Teddy to snog him senseless, but instead, he got tears.

 

Teddy’s lip quivered.  “I do mean it, Jamie.  I shouldn’t have to snog the fuck out of you to make you realize that I do. Our love should be stronger than that. It transcends the physical – it _has_ to, because…”

 

“Because I’m physically disabled,” James muttered bitterly.  “I’m sorry, Teddy,” he said without real sympathy, “I’m not a saint.  I need to be sexual.  It’s who I am.”  James couldn’t hold on to his frustration any longer and perhaps got more belligerent than Teddy really deserved.  “I _need_ you,” he demanded, “I need you to do things for me other than help me get dressed and help me walk. You’re my fucking boyfriend, not my bloody nursemaid.  I _need_ you to fuck me.  I shouldn’t be made to feel like that’s asking too much of you.”

 

It was always hard to stay mad at Teddy, who was always so damn patient.  “I understand that, but maybe it’s asking too much of _you_.” He held James’ face and stared at him deeply with eyes the color of periwinkles – eyes that could see right down to James’ broken soul.  “You can’t lie to me, James Potter,” he said, not unkindly, “I know you’re in pain right now.”

 

James rested his forehead on Teddy’s and whined, “I don’t bloody care about the pain.”  Then he did what he had always been very damn good at.  He rocked his hips slowly over Teddy’s lap, putting on his best coercive, slow drawl.  “I want you, baby. Deep inside me. Don’t you want me too?”

 

When Teddy was left without excuses, he really was powerless to James’ seduction.  He had always been.  James felt a surge of warmth through his body, reassured, by the press of his lover’s growing arousal, that he still had quite an effect on Teddy.

 

It was enough to inspire Teddy to pant softly. “I’ll show you how much I want you… if you take your meds.”

 

James could negotiate when sex was on the table. Figuratively, of course. He couldn’t expect that sort of unbridled behavior under the circumstances, though he could still remember vividly when Teddy would bend him over the desk in his office, push aside James’ Gryffindor robes, and fuck him blind.  James feared they’d never go back to those reckless days of sex in odd places.

 

The shitty thing about pain potions, as James found out, is that they desensitize you in one respect while managing to stimulate you in other regards.  So, while James was high on pain killers, feeling like an affectionate cat, his cock wouldn’t cooperate.

 

Teddy gingerly started to make love to James on their bed, overly cautious of James’ physical state, for James was in even less control of his faculties than normal.  As it was, it was already difficult to stay hard, but Teddy’s decidedly unromantic hesitation was not making it any easier.

 

“Merlin, I feel like a creep,” Teddy said, his brow furrowing deeply, “You’re high as a bloody kite.  I feel like I’m taking advantage.”

 

James smiled lazily, reaching up to ruffle Teddy’s emotionally multicolored hair.  “I’m not some drunk girl at a party.  I gave you consent before I took the drugs.”

 

“Yeah, but I made you take them. I feel weird about it now,” Teddy said worriedly.

 

“Don’t feel weird; feel how fucking _tight_ I am,” James groaned wantonly, “Fuck me deeper, baby.”

 

Teddy still had a concerned look on his face when he eased in further, all the way to the hilt.  “Jamie, this doesn’t feel right.  I want it to be special and beautiful.  But you’re not even hard.”

 

“I’ll get there.  Don’t worry.  I love you.” James felt numb in a comfortable, warm way.  He couldn’t really feel Teddy inside him, though he should’ve felt considerable discomfort, considering it had been ages since they’d had sex.

 

Teddy was not wrong.  It didn’t feel right.  But James would rather have rubbish sex than admit this was a disastrous attempt at rekindling the passion between them.  His ego couldn’t take it.  And neither could their relationship, James feared.

 

In the end, Teddy was so put off by the fact that James wasn’t hard that he had to stop. If James couldn’t enjoy it, Teddy couldn’t enjoy it.

 

When they tried again, hours later, after James had woken up in the dead of night with a raging hard-on, it still wasn’t right. An unfortunate side effect of taking pain potion at the full dose was that the pain came back with a vengeance after it had worn off.  Without any medication left in his system, James could feel every hesitant thrust in every single bone of his body, and not in a good way. Teddy was so tentative and timid in his motions, so afraid of hurting James, that it wasn’t even enjoyable.  After working harder than should be necessary to keep his erection, James could barely bring himself to come for Teddy’s sake. They were going through the motions just so they wouldn’t have to give up - because giving up felt like giving up on each other. 

 

They hadn’t tried again since.

 

 

 

“You know you’re only hurting yourself by not being truthful with me,” Duston says with a pointed expression, unfazed by the alleged prospect of sitting in spunk.  He continues, speaking clinically, “Are you able to self-stimulate to completion?”

 

James snorts.  “Do I wank off?  Yeah, I bloody wank off. There’s fuck all to do around here – I’ve got to entertain myself _somehow_ when the boyfriend isn’t here.”  Then James ruffles his hair absently and mutters to himself under his breath, “And even when he _is_ here.”

 

Duston jots something down in James’ file and nods curtly. “Right. So you have no difficulty obtaining and maintaining an erection through self-manipulation. However, the incidence of dysfunction is correlated to sexual activity with your partner.”

 

“What?” James huffs defensively while also getting flustered, which is quite an achievement on Duston’s part.  “I never said… You don’t know what you’re… How do you even…?”

 

“I’m trained to diagnose between the lines when patients are,” Duston grins tightly, looking like he’s biting back a more colorful word, “unforthcoming.”

 

James scoffs, “So you’re a _sex-pert_ now, Montague?  What’s your diagnosis?” He crosses his arms and glares challengingly, daring Montague to further undermine his manhood.

 

Duston replies plainly, not even deigning to look up as he writes his assessment in the charts, “As I had suspected, all neurological damage affecting the lower quarters of the body is temporary. With time, effort, and continued _compliance_ ,” Duston glances up pointedly before returning his attention to his quill and parchment, “with my prescribed treatment plan, you can expect an acceptable return to mobility. There is no apparent loss of function secondary to side effects of clinical treatment, and treatment should continue at the current dose.”

 

“English, Montague,” James chides him, “You know – the language we speak in this country.”

 

Duston rolls his eyes and drops the clinical language in favor of a more casual approach.  “Do what I bloody say, take your meds, do your exercises, don’t be a stupid-arse, and you’ll be able to walk again. 

 

“And the, er,” James clears his throat and overcompensates with feigned casualness, “erectile dysfunction?  Is that, terminal?  Is there a potion I can take for that?  Maybe an operation, or something?”

 

“You don’t have erectile dysfunction, James,” Duston sighs wearily. “Some men experience sexual dysfunction as a side effect of the pain potion, but you’re not taking your potion, so…” He gives James a little resigned shrug.  “You just need to get things sorted with Teddy.  Go on holiday for a dirty weekend or something.  Spice things up.  You’re bored.”

 

“I’m bored,” James repeats dramatically, throwing his hands up as if it’s a revelation, “Thank you, Doctor Obvious, for your diagnosis.”

 

Duston rolls his eyes again and gestures at James, “Let’s go, Potter.  Out of the chair. I’m your aide for the day and you’re going to do bloody laps outside even if it kills you.”

 

James gives Duston a withering look. “Fuck.  Who needs a personal trainer, when I’ve got Montague pushing me to do bloody suicide runs?”

 

 

James should probably practice walking more than he does. Scorpius can’t be arsed to expend the effort to force James to practice.  Mind you, James is not lazy.  It’s just that the disappointment and frustration that comes with trying is more taxing than the act of walking. 

 

James can bench press a fat garden gnome in each hand for a hundred reps without tiring.  He can do pushups and pull ups like there’s no tomorrow.  He’s got the arms of a Greek god, if he may say so himself.

 

But James is weak where it matters most to him.

 

When James tries to walk, he is reminded of his one shortcoming as far as recovery.  James would rather not even try if failure is a likely possibility. James Sirius Potter doesn’t lose. He won’t play the game if he knows the odds are stacked against him.  Duston’s assessment offers no encouragement.  It is a lot easier to say that James will walk _adequately_ some day than to say James will never be the same again.

 

 

The following day is business as usual, though James wakes up particularly sore.  It’s understandable, given the rigorous workout that Montague had forced out of him. When Teddy gives him his pain potion at breakfast, James doesn’t spit it out into his coffee while pretending to wash it down.  Malfoy arrives soon after Teddy leaves, and James is so mellowed-out from his meds that he forgets to be rude.

 

Well, he nearly forgets.

 

“Taking time off from your illustrious modeling career to care for the disabled?  Awh,” James coos, “How very philanthropic of you.”  He’s going for sarcastic, but the potion influences a more genuine-sounding remark than he’d intended.  He always was an affectionate drunk – the sort of bloke who’d get wasted and say _I love you, mate._ And being under the influence of such a strong painkiller is having a similar effect.

 

Scorpius snorts and mutters bitterly, “At this point, I’d hardly call it illustrious or a career.  I did one editorial shoot for a fancy-arse art photographer.  I’m still too pretty for the runway.”  He hangs up his jacket on the rack beside the floo and adds, “And by the way, you’re a dick for using that word.  _Disabled_.”

 

James rolls his eyes and slumps back in his chair. “Here we go.  The fucking language police is back.  What am I supposed to say?”  James hooks his fingers to make quotation marks in the air. “ _Physically challenged_?”

 

“No, I mean you’ve no right to call yourself disabled,” Scorpius explains, looking offended, “It’s unfair to the people who genuinely can’t walk.  You’ve got a bloody back injury – you’re not crippled for life.  So don’t go throwing words around like that if you want to get better.”

 

James can’t tell if Scorpius is painfully politically correct or actually gives a shit.  Or perhaps Scorpius just likes riding that high horse he clambers onto once in a while.

 

James puts on a deep pout, mocking Scorpius. “But if I get better then I won’t need you anymore.  And you’ll be out of a job. Then you’ll be useless and pretty. Just like me.”

 

Scorpius turns to walk into the kitchen and mutters, perhaps not intended for James’ ears, “I’m already useless and pretty.”

 

 

Much of the day goes just like this. James insults Scorpius in a painless haze while Scorpius gets annoyed at everything.  James notices that Scorpius is particularly cranky today. He’s also rather distracted. He keeps fiddling with his mobile phone instead of paying attention to James.  And because the potion turns James into a needy kitten, he finds himself fighting for Scorpius’ undivided attention.

 

Scorpius is fixated on the little muggle device while he should be spotting James as he does his weight training exercises. James groans and grumbles dramatically with pain that he does not really feel as he uses the bench press. Still, Scorpius is just as inattentive.

 

Finally, James gets fed up and says, “Would it kill you to look away from that bloody screen for five seconds to do your job? How could your bloody mobile phone be more fascinating than me?”

 

Scorpius doesn’t look up as he replies, “Technically, it’s not my phone,” then adds as if the two thoughts are not connected, “If Albus had a two-word pass code, what would it be?”

 

James snorts, “Real subtle, Malfoy. You steal my brother’s phone, and now you can’t even get in.  I don’t know who’s the bigger dumb-arse.  Al, for marrying you?  Or you, for thinking you can break into his phone.”

 

“Just because I can’t crack a code, doesn’t make me a dumb-arse,” Scorpius says with an exasperated sigh as he tosses the device at James.  “Let’s see you do it.”

 

James may not be able to walk, but his reflexes have definitely returned to him, even in his drug-addled state.  He catches the phone easily, then swipes his finger across the screen. He’d seen his brother do it enough times to know how it worked.  There are two rows of four white squares.

 

“You get three attempts before you’re locked out for ten minutes,” Scorpius informs him.

 

“How many times have you tried?” James asks.

 

Scorpius rests his chin in his hand and mumbles, “Lost count.  Been trying for hours.”

 

“Well, then it’s obviously nothing that has any significance between you two,” James deduces, then grins with amusement. “Shit.  He must really be trying to hide something from you. Well, I take it you know that, or you wouldn’t be trying to break into his phone.” 

 

Scorpius glares at James, but says nothing.

 

James was previously unaware that Albus and Scorpius are having issues.  He can’t help but find pleasure in his brother’s marital problems.  He’s never been the sort of bloke to feel happy for his siblings. Now that Lily is a quidditch star and Al is a rock star, James just feels bitter and jealous of their success. He is supposed to be the brightest star in their family.  The apple of his parents’ eye.  The favorite. His little brother’s failure is James’ sick delight.

 

Eight spaces.  Eight blank squares that pose a challenge which James is eager to take. He makes two failed attempts before taking a long time to think about it.  After a good ten minutes, it comes to him.

 

J A R H

A N D S

 

The code is broken.  James Sirius Potter is a fucking genius.

 

 

When James was five and Albus was three, there was an incident in which they were finger painting.  Their mother was too busy with Lily, who was a baby at the time, to pay close attention to what the boys were doing.  Rather than give them full bottles of finger paint, which they would definitely cause havoc with, she squeezed a reasonable amount of each color into used baby food jars. 

 

Somehow, Albus had gotten both hands stuck inside two glass jars.  But rather than help get them off, or alert their mother to the problem, James made Albus go about the rest of his day with jars on his hands.  He’d convinced Albus that he would be able to get his hands out once the paint inside the jars dried.  Of course, he dripped paint everywhere he went and got terribly frustrated every time he had to pick something up, much to James’ utter amusement. Eventually, their mother found Albus banging his encased hands against the furniture, trying to break the glass.

 

From that day on, James called Albus _Jar Hands_.  It was a stupid nickname, but it infuriated Albus, and so it stuck. At least, it stuck until it lost its potency from over use, around the time Albus turned five. By then, James was seven and had loads of filthy words in his arsenal with which to concoct all sorts of disparaging names for his little brother.  But every so often, when James really wanted to start some shit, he’d call Albus _Jar Hands_ , and it was like tearing the scab off an old wound that was never allowed to heal. So many fistfights began with _Hey Jar Hands_.

 

The origin of _Jar Hands_ became a legend that changed as the years wore on. By the time Albus was eleven, on the verge of starting Hogwarts, the tale James weaved had nothing to do with the real story. He would tell people that Albus had caught mange mites on his balls and their parents affixed jars to his hands to keep him from scratching.  When their dad caught wind of it, he forbade James to ever call Albus _Jar Hands_ or tell any version of the story, upon pain of losing his racing broom.  It was most unfortunate that the nickname never followed Albus into Hogwarts.   James could have spread some truly epic rumors about Albus wearing jars as a deterrent from excessive masturbation.

 

The name never died, though.  He couldn’t speak it, but nobody ever told James he couldn’t write it.  So every birthday, he wrote _To Jar Hands_ on Albus’ card. When they were teenagers, James stopped bothering to give his brother birthday cards, and so the name fell into the archives of childhood memories.

 

 

James is a little stunned that Albus still remembers. _Jar Hands_ is something that Albus would have been too embarrassed to share with Scorpius.  To Albus’ credit, it is a clever password to use if he indeed wants to keep Scorpius from snooping around.

 

But James doesn’t let on that he now has access to Albus’ electronic secrets.  He slips the device into his pocket and says, “I’m going to hang on to this the rest of the day and keep trying.  Bet you five galleons I can figure it out.”

 

Scorpius shrugs dismissively and mumbles, “Bet you ten that you don’t.”

 

When Scorpius takes his usual late afternoon break, James sequesters himself in his bedroom and proceeds to go through Albus mobile phone.  The first thing he searches is Albus’ email.  After a quick skim, it soon becomes apparent that there isn’t anything incriminating left in the inbox. Most of the correspondences are band related.

 

Next, he sifts through the text message history. He finds boring exchanges between Albus and his manager.  He quickly scrolls through boring group messages between Albus and his band mates with the occasional drunken _selfie_ from Connor.

 

Then James hits the jackpot – the stuff that Albus is hiding from his husband.

 

James can’t help smirking with fiendish glee as he reads through the conversation between Albus and somebody whose contact name is simply _H.R._ It quickly becomes apparent that his brother’s marriage is completely _fucked_. Whether or not Scorpius will ever read these messages is irrelevant to that fact.

 

He doesn’t read everything.  Just enough to get the gist of what’s going on before it makes him gag.

 

 

_HR: Are you being a good boy?_

_Al: Yes Sir.  Haven’t come in days.  Haven’t touched it._

_HR: What about him?_

_Al: Not even him.  Been SO good for you Sir.  Can I see you?_

_HR: I’m back in Berlin. Maybe tomorrow._

_Al: I can’t wait that long. Please can I see you tonight?_

_HR: Eager little slut._

_Al: Sir, it hurts. Your eager little slut needs to come._

_HR: I like it when you hurt. You’re so lovely when you hurt._

_Al: Please Sir.  If I can’t see you tonight may I have permission to take care of myself?_

_HR: You can. But if you do, I won’t fuck you tomorrow._

_Al: If I’m a good boy today, will I really earn your cock tomorrow?_

_HR: I’m a man of my word. You know that, slut._

_Al: Will you let me come when you fuck me tomorrow?_

_HR: Depends.  Ring me.  I want to hear you ask nicely._

James always knew Albus was a messed up prick, despite the relatively virtuous persona his brother projected. Nobody ever wanted to believe that Albus was depraved when they were growing up.  Albus was always the sweet and innocent one, even when he was sneaking off to screw the Malfoy kid before he was old enough to date. He was always the good one, even when he was dropping out of school to be a rock star.  He was ever the picture of the perfect husband in wedded bliss, even when he was brazenly having a twisted affair with a kinky bloke from Germany. 

 

It is disgusting how Albus wears the halo while he is the most fucked up one of all.  It actually angers James.  He really wants to expose Albus for what he really is, now that he has irrefutable proof.

 

He finds Scorpius looking forlorn in the study, curled up in an armchair like a wounded child.  Misery gouges lines in his pale brow and a pulls a deep frown at the corners of his mouth.  James has never seen Scorpius like this – so unguardedly in pain. 

 

James has the power to thoroughly ruin Scorpius’ life right at this very moment.  That should fill him with enough devilish glee to sustain him endlessly, but it doesn’t. He daresay that he actually feels sorry for Scorpius.  He may be an annoying, self-righteous, icy bitch, but he doesn’t deserve what Albus is doing to him. James would not wish that upon anyone, except perhaps Albus himself. 

 

As much as he wants to see Albus’ marriage go up in black smoke and flames, he can’t bring himself to set the fire. James can’t find it in him to burn the one person who actually believes in him.  For all of Scorpius’ sarcasm and apathy, he’s the only one who doesn’t consider James disabled.  And James is surprised how much that matters.

 

He drops the now locked mobile device onto the table in front of Scorpius and says quietly, “I give up.  I owe you ten galleons.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to ColorfulStabwound for letting me use Duston Montague.


	11. Scorpius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to ColorfulStabwound for being the best beta ever and for letting me bounce ideas off of them. As always, thanks for being my friend and my partner in literary insanity.
> 
> Thank you to the lovely readers who have stuck with this story through all the pain and drama. Keep those comments coming. It is totally okay to tell me how much you hate Albus. Haha! It's far from over and if you thought it hurt now... oh you just wait.

~11: Scorpius~

_“Songs about happiness murmured in dreams”_

 

 

 

Scorpius is dressed in designer menswear that fits as if it had been made for him, and technically it was.  It’s a crisp, white Burberry suit that he wore for the spring/summer runway show last year.  Ready-to-wear, but chosen and tailored just for him because only Scor could showcase this masterpiece of British design with the stately, sensual elegance it deserved.  All in white, with a mist grey shirt beneath, and pale physical features to match, he is the embodiment of his fashion icon title.

 

_I am ice. I am frozen.  I am cold.  I am hard. I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not…_

 

Scorpius bites down so hard on his lip to keep it from quivering that he could pierce the skin.  He is a picture of self-possession, of contained emotion. But the eyes of _The Ice Prince_ glisten crystalline blue with imminent tears. And Scorpius doesn’t think he can keep up his regal façade for much longer.

 

He is holding onto Albus’ arm, sitting beside him in a posh London lounge, ever the dutiful and doting husband.  Cameras flash in the dull blue gloom of the dimly lit venue. He is so accustomed to bright lights in his face that he doesn’t even blink.  He is used to being on display, and a scene like this doesn’t faze him anymore, even though it feels like he and Albus are inside a glass case, being gawked at like animals in a zoo.  The media hurls questions at them, as if tapping on the glass, trying to get them to do something other than sitting there stoically.

 

“Scor, what do you think of your husband’s new album so far?”

 

Scorpius puts on a smile that betrays no emotion. “It’s… different. But it’s good. Al’s a genius.”

 

He squeezes Albus’ arm and rests his head on his shoulder, as if to reassure him – but it is not his true intention. His blunt nails dig in hard enough to make Albus flinch.  This whole farce is a theatrical performance, and every single person at this invitation-only event is acting, some more convincingly than others.  It is an album release listening party hosted by the record company, populated mainly by industry people, critics, and media. Everyone is pretending to have a good, thoughtful listen, nodding their heads to the beat with approval, whether warranted or not.

 

Scorpius is here to support his husband, and for good PR. After all, he and Albus are the reigning celebrity gay couple in the muggle world, and everybody expects Scorpius to be with Albus for big publicity events such as this. 

 

This should not be the first place that Scorpius is hearing Albus’ new album.  For all the previous albums, he had the privilege of hearing the music as it took shape, from Albus tinkering with his guitar in their flat, to the tracks being laid down in the recording studio.  The songs affect him more than anybody else, and they should.  It’s personal.  Every word that Albus sings, and every note that Albus plays, evokes an emotion. Each song is a message that tugs on Scorpius’ insides in uncomfortable ways.

 

He can already see the review on Pitchfork in his head: _The bright melodies and lively major chords of Albus Severus’ previous work give way to emotionally jarring minor chords and anguished vocal lamentations._

 

It is painful to listen to a recording of the sounds of Albus falling apart, and Scorpius doesn’t feel comfortable with his husband offering up the broken pieces for strangers to devour.  The songs are powerful and beautiful and moving in ways that Albus has never expressed before. This is a different Albus. This is an Albus that Scorpius doesn’t recognize – an Albus that Scorpius almost doesn’t want to know. This Albus is tortured, tormented, miserable, and alone.  Scorpius wants it to be fiction, but he knows that Albus has always written from the heart.

 

Scorpius is upset that Albus has been hiding this part of himself from him.  Albus had yet to come clean about lying to Scorpius about the tail end of his stay in Los Angeles.  Scorpius can begin to understand why Albus had lied.  Albus just didn’t want to face Scorpius with all the pain that had welled-up during the process of making this album.  Because at the center of it was the notion that something wasn’t right between them. They had grown up and had grown apart. It’s not just wild speculation on Scorpius’ part, it’s blatantly spelled out in Albus’ lyrics.

 

Around the fifth song, the media begins to disperse amongst the crowd to take advantage of the free flowing champagne. Miranda taps Albus on the shoulder and tells him he should mingle. 

 

But Scorpius clings tightly to his arm with a death grip. “No, I need you. I can’t do this alone.”

 

“Come with me, then,” says Albus, looking only slightly concerned.

 

Scorpius shakes his head adamantly. “I’m not going to be your arm candy right now, Al.”  He flashes a challenging glare at Miranda, daring her to steal Albus away from him right now. She shrugs coolly and stalks away on stiletto heels.

 

Albus has the nerve to be offended. “What the hell, Scor?” he whispers disapprovingly.

 

“You can’t spring an album like this on me in a public forum,” Scorpius hisses through gritted teeth, speaking low enough not to alarm anyone near by.  “Or did you do that on purpose?  So I wouldn’t be able to show how I really feel about it.”

 

Albus’ brow furrows and his green eyes look wounded in that maddeningly childlike way that Scorpius is still somehow susceptible to. “You hate it?”

 

Scorpius heaves a deep sigh.  “I can’t talk about it here.  In front of _them_.” He gestures his chin at the photographers lingering at the periphery.

 

They escape through a back door that opens into an alley. It smells of old piss and vomit. It’s not the place where Scorpius wants to have this conversation.  It should be taking place in the privacy and comfort of their own home, and Scorpius is rather bitter about the fact that it’s not.

 

“You hate it,” Albus says, this time as a resigned statement rather than a question.  He still looks like a puppy that’s about to cry, and it isn’t fucking fair. Albus doesn’t get to cry about this.

 

“Oh, what does it fucking matter whether I like it or not?” Scorpius snaps.  “It’s done. It’s out there. For all the world to hear.”

 

He stares up at the sliver of night sky above the alley. The city lights blanch out the stars that should be out by now.  For a moment, he yearns for the glittering heavens of Hogwarts.  The putrid stench of the alley and a surge of hot tears sting his eyes.

 

Scorpius heaves a long shuddering breath and speaks upon a quiet sob, sounding betrayed.  “It _hurts,_ Albie. It’s so bloody _sad_.  And dark. _Very_ dark.  It’s not like anything you’ve ever written before.”

 

There was a time when the sight of Scorpius in tears would send Albus scrambling to comfort him.  But Albus just stands there with his arms crossed, looking like he’s the injured one.  “Not every song can be about you, Scor,” he says solemnly, nearly whispering it.

 

Scorpius hadn’t even thought about that aspect, but now that Albus has brought it up, it feels like being punched in the stomach. He stumbles backwards and hits the grimy wall, disregarding the fact that he’s ruining his white jacket. Albus had made a career out of singing Scorpius’ praises.  But this was a very brooding and introspective album.

 

He blinks away tears and implores, “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?  Why didn’t you fucking talk to me?  I had no idea you were feeling this way.”

 

Scorpius feels like he’s losing Albus more than ever, if he hasn’t already lost him.

 

Albus replies meekly, “You were busy, and I… I didn’t know how, other than to write about it.”

 

The back door of the club opens, startling them both. Miranda peeks her head out and says, “There you are, boys.  I had a mild heart attack when I thought you’d left.  Track eleven is being played now.  You’ve got about five minutes before the Q&A session, so make yourselves presentable.”

 

“My _selves_?” Albus questions his manager with a confused expression.

 

“You and Scor. Can’t give them one without the other, nowadays.”  She rolls her eyes before they narrow upon Scorpius.  “Are you crying?” she asks incredulously, without any sympathy whatsoever.

 

 

Miranda is the sort of manager that does what is best for Albus’ career, regardless of the detrimental effect it has on his personal life.  Scorpius has never had a good relationship with Miranda.  When Albus first started out in the music business, she was adamant that having Scorpius around was bad for the band’s public image – it would alienate fans who liked their rock stars straight.  And then when Scorpius became a media darling, Miranda could tolerate having him on the road with Albus.  But she never really warmed to the idea of him – not even when he married Albus.

 

 

Scorpius angrily wipes away his tears with the dirty sleeve of his jacket, smearing soot across his face as he retorts, “Are you seriously making me do this fucking press bullshit with Al right now?”

 

Miranda glances behind her to make sure there are no witnesses.  She pulls out the wand that is stealthily hidden in the pocket of her pencil skirt and gestures at Scorpius with it.  “You’re a mess. Come here.  You’re on in five.  Just smile and nod and tell everyone how brilliant your husband is.”

 

“I need to visit the loo first,” Albus mumbles grumpily as he brushes past Miranda and Scorpius through the back door.

 

Scorpius is a pro at standing still and letting others make him look pretty.  He lets Miranda charm away the stains from his white jacket and the soot from his wet cheeks. She is the only witch amongst Albus’ entourage of muggles, and it is probably her only redeeming quality.

 

“Every couple has a row once in a while. It’s normal.  It’ll blow over.”  From Miranda’s tone, Scorpius knows that what she’s saying has nothing to do with consolation or relationship advice.  It’s her way of telling Scorpius to _suck it up_ for the cameras.

 

Scorpius goes to the men’s room to retrieve Albus and finds him bent over the sinks.  Albus snaps his head up sharply, sniffles, and rubs his nose.  Initially, Scorpius thinks Albus is crying, but the guilty expression and the remnants of white powder on his husband’s face give him away.

 

Albus doesn’t even pretend, and Scorpius is only faintly thankful for that.  He’d be angrier if Albus had tried to lie about it.  “I can’t face them without a little help,” Albus admits shamefully.

 

It’s another punch in the stomach. Scorpius is supposed to be that _little help_ that gets him through moments of insecurity.  He storms up to Albus and takes his face in his hand, not gently, and wipes the powder from under his nose.  Albus winces away, but doesn’t protest.  Then Scorpius keeps his firm hold on Albus’ chin and pierces him with an angry glare.

 

“We don’t do interviews when we’re high,” Scorpius reprimands. “We _promised_ each other this, remember?  Back in Vegas, after the sex tape incident – ring a bell? So we wouldn’t say or do anything stupid that would haunt us later, yeah?”  He nearly pushes Albus away when he relinquishes his hold and mutters bitterly, “Or did you forget _all_ of your promises to me?”

 

Albus steadies himself with his hands on the sinks and hangs his head down.  He closes his eyes and takes a long breath, as if to cleanse himself of guilt. “Just this once,” he whispers, unable to look up at Scorpius.

 

Scorpius snorts with disbelief. “Right.  Sure.  Whatever you say, Al.” Then he grumbles bitterly, “Cocaine, hm? That’s a new one. L.A. really left an impression on you.”

 

Scorpius knows that it’s his fault that Albus looks so wretched, so full of regret and fear.  He says nothing to Scorpius, yet looks like he has a million things he needs to get off his chest.  A part of Scorpius wants to fold up Albus in his arms and kiss him until the pain subsides. But another part of him wants to take Albus by the shoulders, shake him, and force the truth out of him.

 

He lingers in the doorway on his way out and stares at the person that is supposed to be his other half – this person he doesn’t even know anymore.  He recites Albus’ lyrics. “ _Everything I am, I owe to you.  And everything I’m not, I owe you too_.”

Albus softly sings the rest of the refrain, his voice cracking slightly, as he continues to gaze miserably at the inside of the sink, “ _This is the debt that I can never pay, these are the words I can never say, this is your song that I will never play.”_

 

 

They should really have a long talk about this – about Albus’ secrets.  They should’ve talked about it ages ago.  Scorpius should have confronted Albus about his lies, rather than let it fester silently like a sore upon their marriage.  Maybe Scorpius is just as much to blame for their disconnect.  He should’ve recognized that Albus wasn’t happy and he should’ve done something about it.

 

In the days after the listening party, their flat should be filled with shouting and fighting and the dissonant sounds of hearts breaking as they put all their issues on the table.  That would be the healthy thing to do.  But it is so quiet that it’s deafening.  Their inability to talk to each other screams volumes about the state of their relationship. 

 

Maybe Scorpius really doesn’t want to talk about it. Maybe he just wants to keep hoping that Albus will snap out of this fog and everything will go back to the way it was. So work and sleep become a device used to put off serious conversation.  Albus is home for the next few days before he has to leave again for a promotion tour, and conveniently, he and Scorpius aren’t even awake at the same time.

 

Scorpius leaves for James’ every morning while Albus is still asleep.  At night, Albus sequesters himself in the little makeshift studio he had set up adjacent to their bedroom and plays guitar while Scorpius pretends to be asleep. But really, Scorpius is listening to every sad note through the thin walls.  He knows that this is the only way that Albus can communicate to him now. Scorpius stares at the cracks in the ceiling as he listens to Albus express his pain and loneliness through somber melodies until he climbs into their bed and keeps to his side.

 

~//~

 

“Unless you take off your clothes, your shots won’t likely leave Rhys’ hard drive,” Alexa tells Scorpius over the phone. She has landed him a modeling gig with a fashion photographer, but it comes with this caveat. “If you let him shoot you nude, there is a good chance you’ll end up in a magazine editorial. Or better yet, in a gallery. This could be huge for you, Scor.”

 

Like Scorpius, Rhys is one of those people in the fashion industry that goes by one name, which means he’s a big deal. What he’s famous for is his strikingly beautiful nude portraits.

 

“I don’t know, Lex.  It might give my dad an aneurism,” Scorpius sighs.

 

“I promise you, it’ll be tasteful. Rhys isn’t a perv,” Alexa assures him, “He’s rather hot, actually – not that you’re looking.  But he’s definitely not a perv.”

 

When Scorpius arrives at Rhys’ studio in London, he discovers for himself that Alexa is right.  Rhys is not a pervert, and he is quite attractive.  Scorpius can’t help but look because he’s staring at Rhys’ camera for hours on end.  Rhys is in his early thirties, proudly Welsh, unapologetically eccentric, and unabashedly flamboyant. He has the energy of a choreographer, gesturing wildly at his assistants and stylists that flutter around Scorpius in a mad dance of props, makeup, and lights. 

 

Rhys truly believes that what he is doing is high art, and that somehow makes Scorpius feel like what he’s doing is important. He is not just a pretty face to plaster on a billboard.  He’s not a commodity to sell.  He’s not a whore on the runway, hawking obscenely expensive menswear. 

 

He is a muse.  Just like he was for Albus.

 

Scorpius sits as still as a painter’s canvas, wearing a mere hand towel on his lap, as the makeup and hair crew transform him. He’s heavily caked with sheer makeup all over his body, remarkably not sweating it off even as the lights blare down on him like the sun.

 

Once he’s prepped, Rhys delivers the _piece de resistance_ himself.  “What’s a prince without a crown?” He presents a frail looking circlet of glass that is hewn into a crown of swirling ice and snow.

 

Scorpius wants to vomit.  Surely his displeasure is written all over his face, despite the makeup that might be rendering his expression to something else entirely. He feels like a fool, like Rhys is turning him into a caricature.  Perhaps he isn’t a muse, but one big joke.  Rhys gently sets the crown upon Scorpius’ amply sprayed hair and Scorpius feels like he’s going to break down under the weight of his title. He’s made a name for himself by hiding his emotions, and he’s too exhausted to keep doing it.

 

“That’s what I want,” Rhys gasps, going wide-eyed behind his thick-rimmed glasses.  “Give me more of that,” he says as he scurries toward his tripod and starts shooting pictures in rapid fire.

 

Scorpius is still confused as the camera _click click clicks_.  “More what?  I’ve no idea what you want.”

 

“That!  All of it. Give it to me.  Fuck, it’s gorgeous,” Rhys emotes excitedly between photos.

 

Scorpius shrugs his shoulders and holds his palms up, clueless and frustrated.  “Sir, I’ve no fucking idea what you’re talking about.”

 

Rhys clarifies, “I don’t want Ice Queen. I don’t want that bitch-face you put on for the runway that makes the bloggers cream their pants. I don’t want cold and regal. And for fuck’s sake, I don’t want you to call me _Sir_. You make me sound like an old man and I can’t be much more than ten years older than you.”

 

Scorpius huffs, having lost his patience entirely, “Well, that’s what you _don’t_ want. But what _do_ you want?”

 

“I want your emotions.  The whole spectrum,” Rhys says as he moves his hand in a wide arc with his fingers splayed, as if painting a rainbow upon Scorpius in his mind. “Can you give that to me if Daisy here removes the towel?”  He gestures delicately at one of his assistants.

 

Scorpius isn’t sure he can, but he nods anyway. He’s never been this exposed for anybody but Albus, both literally and figuratively.  He wants to hug his knees to his chest and hide, but he’s an elaborately painted display for everyone to see.

 

His nervousness must be showing, for Rhys leaves his camera to coach him.  He tells Scorpius in a quiet voice, as if it’s a secret between them, “All of these people here aren’t judging you, yeah?  They’re focused on making you look good so that you don’t have to think about looking good.” There’s something about Rhys’ warm, brown eyes that makes Scorpius want to trust him.  “You don’t need to force it.  Just be you.  I want to see Scor, not The Ice Prince.”

 

Being able to let go and be himself is remarkably liberating.  Without the hindrance of clothes and without expectations, Scorpius uses his body as an instrument to express raw emotion.

 

After the series is shot, Rhys gives Scorpius the rare courtesy of previewing some of the photos.  Perhaps it is to reassure him that they are indeed shot in good taste and not vulgar.  They’re both seeing them for the first time as Rhys scrolls quickly through the pictures on a screen.  He stops on one in particular and gasps.

 

“Oh, Scor…,” Rhys whispers in awe, “You’re magical. The world needs to see you like this. They need to know you’re so much more than The Ice Prince.”

 

The picture is startling.  Scorpius is unused to seeing himself like this, captured on camera.

 

In the photograph, the light and the makeup work together to make Scorpius’ skin look like it’s shimmering snow. His pose and his expression depict agony and grace, pain and fragility, hopelessness and desperation. The crystals glued to his face catch the light in a way that makes it look like Scorpius has frozen tears on his face.

 

Rhys has accomplished something that no fashion photographer has managed to, thus far.   The picture of what Scorpius is on the outside matches what he is on the inside.

 

By the end of the long, productive day, Scorpius is exhausted in a gratifying way.  Before he leaves, Rhys expresses his appreciation – another rare courtesy from a photographer. “Thanks for showing me someone genuine.”

 

Scorpius is a bit taken aback, but quite flattered. “You’re very welcome. Thanks for showing me… me.” The smile he gives Rhys is gracious and real.  “I hope we can work together again some time.”

 

“Yeah, that’d be brilliant.”  Rhys nods and his eyes linger upon Scorpius a second too long for it to be innocuous.  And Scorpius is startled to find that he doesn’t entirely mind.

 

 

When Scorpius comes home, it’s late, and Albus isn’t there. He hasn’t left a message for Scorpius.  Scorpius calls his mobile, but Albus doesn’t answer, nor does he answer the text messages he sends him, asking him where he is and when he’ll be back.

 

Because Scorpius sometimes likes to torture himself, he sits in bed, waiting for Albus, and listens to his new album. Maybe it would give him a clue about where Albus would want to go – about why he’d want to shut Scorpius out suddenly. But the only thing that Albus’ songs give him is heartache.  With Albus’ voice dripping sensual anguish on the tracks, coming through the headphones directly to Scorpius ears, it is the most intimate they’ve been in days.

 

He falls asleep without meaning to, and doesn’t wake up until his alarm rouses him at an obscenely early hour. Albus is sleeping like the dead on his side of the bed, still wearing his clothes – jacket and all.

 

As Scorpius pads around quietly, getting ready for work, he accidentally kicks Albus’ mobile phone across the floor – Albus probably carelessly dropped it last night.  Scorpius picks it up and hesitates before placing it on the bedside table.  But instead of setting it down, he pockets it.

 

 

When he’s at James’ house, the phone burns a hole in his pocket. He is afraid of what he’ll find, so he doesn’t go looking right away.  But when he does try to investigate, he finds that Albus’ phone is locked behind an eight-digit password.  He thinks he knows Albus pretty damn well.  Certainly, he knows Albus better than anybody else.  But it becomes apparent, once again, that Scorpius doesn’t really know Albus anymore.  He spends all morning trying to crack the code but he can’t get through. It’s a glaring metaphor for their relationship.  Even James can’t figure out the pass code.  Maybe Albus has isolated himself so thoroughly that _nobody_ knows him anymore.

 

He sends Albus text messages asking him where he was last night.  The messages are just to cover his arse.  Of course, Scorpius wants to know the answer, but he also doesn’t want Albus to know he’s had the phone the whole time after he clandestinely replaces it in their bedroom tonight. Scorpius can be sneaky too. He may not have finished his schooling, but he is a Slytherin for life.

 

The next day, Scorpius asks James, “Any idea where Albie was two nights ago?” not that he’d really know.

 

James snorts, “Shit, if you’re asking _me_ that question, things must be much worse than I thought.”

 

Scorpius replies sarcastically, “Try not to be so torn up about it.  I know it would make you so sad to lose me as your brother-in-law.”

 

“Devastated,” James gasps dramatically, mocking Scorpius, clutching his chest as if the mere thought wounds him.

 

Scorpius mutters with more unconcealed sarcasm, “Nice to see you care about your brother.  Heartwarming, really.”

 

“Tell me, Blondie, why do _you_ care so much about my brother, hm?” James challenges him, “When are you going to realize that Albus is an arsehole?  I’ve watched him piss all over you ever since you were kids, and you keep following him around like a dumb shit puppy. Don’t you know you could do so much better?”

 

Scorpius is astounded by what James has just said. He stands before James, completely insulted, mouth gaping, unable to find words strong enough to retaliate because he knows James is completely right.  Of course, Scorpius won’t tell him that – he can barely admit it to himself.

 

James continues through Scorpius’ silence, looking like it pleases him greatly to cause Scorpius so much pain. The more he talks, the deeper he gouges the knife into Scorpius’ belly, and the wider James’ smug grin grows.

 

“Do you want to know where my brother was two nights ago? Let me hazard a guess – he was probably off with some groupie getting his dick sucked.  And do you know where he’ll be tomorrow?  Off with another groupie getting his dick sucked. And you won’t do anything about it because you’re a fucking doormat.  Your balls are dawn up so tightly between your legs that you behave like you have a cunt – you’re a bloody girl.  I wouldn’t be surprised that Al cheats on you – you’re a pussy.”

 

Scorpius has been taking an awful lot of shit from James over the past several weeks and he has not deigned to give James the pleasure of his reaction – until now.  The Prince of Ice has been slowly cracking under the pressure for days, and he is finally at his breaking point.  Scorpius reaches out with both hands and pushes James hard.  James, who had been practicing to walk with crutches behind the cottage, stumbles backwards onto the ground.

 

Scorpius falls upon him, pins him down with just his weight sitting on James’ midsection, and pulls back his fist, ready to throw a punch.  James catches Scorpius by the wrist and overpowers him with the sheer strength of his arms, even when Scorpius tries to swing at him with the other fist.

 

“What’re you gonna do, hm?” James taunts him. “Beat up a cripple? How very brave and manly of you – roughing up a disabled person.  I’m sorry I called you a pussy,” he says, caustic and unapologetic.

 

“You’re not a cripple, you’re a right evil wanker,” Scorpius says through gritted teeth.

 

James is anything but disabled.  He’s stronger and he’s more agile than Scorpius, even with limited use of his legs.  Scorpius struggles against James’ grasp, trying to connect just one blow, growling with frustration and anger. 

 

James laughs as he thwarts Scorpius’ efforts, practically giggling like this is a child’s game, as if Scorpius isn’t trying to break his face.  This infuriates Scorpius to the point of being flustered.  He is unable to focus his anger enough to effectively hurt James. James has already taken all of Scorpius’ ammunition by owning his only weakness – his inability to walk - and turning it against Scorpius.

 

James’ laughter grates at Scorpius more intensely than any of his scathing words.  It burns more than the delicate skin of his wrists wringing in James’ firm grasp. Scorpius wants nothing more than to mortally wound James enough to shut him up.  So he does the only thing he knows is guaranteed to make James recoil.

 

He kisses James.

 

Scorpius crushes his lips against James’, firmly enough to almost knock his teeth in.  And the bastard has the audacity to open his mouth.  James swipes his tongue along Scorpius’ lips, forcing them to part, and Scorpius tastes blood.  He should be revolted and appalled.  But instead Scorpius is triumphant.  He smirks against James’ bleeding mouth as they kiss hard and viciously, knowing that he has won. He has succeeded in silencing James’ sharp tongue, with the added bonus of drawing blood.

 

But also, he has succeeded in hurting Albus without him even knowing.  Scorpius is terrified of how _fucking good_ that feels.

 

Even more disturbing than the fact that Scorpius is actually kissing the vile, acerbic prick that is his husband’s brother, is the revelation that he actually likes it.  After being so ineffectual, he likes how powerful it makes him feel. He likes the way James’ tongue eagerly prods the inside of his mouth as if he’s greedy for Scorpius’ kiss. He delights in the feeling of being wanted as he senses James growing hard beneath him.

 

James seems to be startled by his own physical reaction when he abruptly turns his face away and screws his eyes shut in disgust. “Oh my gods, get off. Get off, get off, _get off!_ ”  He shouts insistently, as if Scorpius is an insect that he has just found sucking his blood.  He rolls Scorpius off of him.

 

Scorpius scrambles to his feet, suddenly realizing the gravity of his actions.  He stands there panting, grabbing his own hair in distress, wide-eyed and faintly watching James using his crutches to get up, never offering to help. 

 

“What the fuck just happened?” Scorpius laments.

 

“Go home, Malfoy.  We’re finished for the day,” James dismisses him, seemingly unaffected other than his labored breaths, behaving flippantly as if he hadn’t just shoved his tongue into Scorpius’ mouth.

 

 

Tonight, Scorpius will be the one that resolutely keeps to his side of the bed.  The empty space on the mattress between them will feel like a deep chasm.

 

He will feel the lingering contact burns on his skin where James’ fingers circled his wrists.  He will feel the phantom heat of James’ taut muscles against the inside of his thighs.  He will taste the faint copper tinge of James’ bloody kiss, well after he has tried to wash himself clean of him.  He will feel a dizzying jumble of emotions from guilt-ridden desire, to self-righteous indignation, to vengeful fury. 

 

But most of all, Scorpius will feel the heart-clenching pain of accepting what he’d known all along - that this is truly the beginning of the end for him and Albus.  No amount of talking about it can possibly bring his marriage out of this unscathed.

 

He will lie awake for hours while Albus sleeps and murmurs songs about Scorpius in his dreams.


	12. Albus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize it has been a year since my last update. I've got good excuses though! None of which I'll trouble you with. I actually started writing this chapter a year ago, and only finished it now. It was another hard one to write. 
> 
> I love reading all your feedback on the story, so keep it up. You can tell me how much you hate Albus.

_~ 12: Albus ~_

_"The addiction of duplicities"_

 

Albus is hopelessly addicted.

 

Addicted to the sensation of lightness and warmth as his brain is bathed in sweet serotonin. Addicted to the rush of hot adrenaline flooding his veins. Addicted to the sweeping elation of love and the electric thrill of danger. Addicted to secret pleasure, to heaven contained in a single explosive moment, to a sudden and complete dissolution of himself.

He had his first taste of it upon the tongue of a beautiful boy with platinum blond hair at the age of fifteen. It created a terrible need inside of him that would never truly be satiated. Every moment spent separated from his angel of white light was tense and anxious. The interim was occupied by obsession and longing. And once he got that fix, delivered from lips that whispered pure love, he could ride that high for hours, or at least until the next kiss. But the more he took, the more he needed, and the more painful it was in the moments before that next blissful hit. And soon, stolen kisses in the broom closet weren’t enough.

 

He was in a constant state of need, even when the boy was near. He had to touch, to taste, to feel at every given opportunity. But the boy was naïve and innocent, and in no hurry to progress further than feverish snogging. Albus loved him too much to push and resigned to suffer silently, feeding his cravings as best he could with a hand under his bedcovers at night.

 

The first time that the boy’s mouth took the place of Albus’ hand, it should have been enough of a thrill to keep him high for months. But it wasn’t enough. And Albus wanted so much more from the boy – more than the boy could give. Albus felt his need eating him up from the inside. He had no right to want him this much – to expect so much from somebody that had already given him everything. Albus was afraid of the desires that lurked darkly within. So he suppressed them, and suppression lead to shame. Shame lead to guilt. Guilt lead to self loathing.

 

It was a sweltering summer night at Malfoy Manor when that beautiful boy first buried himself inside of Albus, deep enough that he felt it for days. They were sixteen, precocious by most standards. It should have been more than enough. Hell, it would’ve been too much, had Albus been a normal teenage boy.

 

But Albus was not normal. And so it was still not enough.

 

Albus is almost certain that he and Scorpius have fucked in every conceivable place in Hogwarts. When they wistfully recount every hidden nook and not-so-hidden corner in which they’d shagged, they grin smugly. Really, who but Albus and Scorpius would even consider having sex in the elves’ pantry in the Hogwarts kitchens? Albus will never forget getting dusted in white when the sheer force of Scorpius pounding into him had broken open a sack of flour – they had laughed about it for years after, and when Scorpius would bake, Albus would get hard just from the association in his mind, which would usually lead to fucking on their kitchen floor before anything could reach the oven.

 

Albus thought that he would never get enough of Scorpius – that his love would always consume him and forever be all-encompassing. So he married his childhood best friend and teenage lover at the age of eighteen. They’d gotten hitched on a whim in a little chapel in Las Vegas while Albus was on his first tour through the United States with The White Lies. It was a spur-of-the moment decision, but he knew it was right. He had already felt eternally bonded to Scorpius, even without the exchanged vows and certificate. And when they made it official at home, with a wizard-officiated ceremony and a huge party, it was really just for show – Albus belonged to Scorpius long before they were bonded by magic.   Being married should have been enough to satisfy Albus’ constant need for Scorpius.

 

But it was _still_ not enough.

 

It wasn’t fair to keep dragging Scorpius around the world. He was meant to be so much more than Albus’ arm candy. He deserved to blossom into the incredible man that Albus always knew Scorpius would be. So even though it hurt Albus more than Scorpius would ever know, he let go.

 

Modeling took Scorpius to amazing heights and inevitably in directions that Albus could not follow. And though Scorpius could not be with Albus on tour anymore, Albus’ insatiable need for him was still along for the ride.

 

Out of the misery of being separated from Scorpius, grew a hungry demon that would not relent in its destruction until it was appeased. For a time, Albus could feed the demon with the adulation of a screaming audience. The thrill of the stage was fulfilling enough to make Albus momentarily forget the pain of being deprived of Scorpius. On the road between gigs, a few stiff drinks and sleeping pills kept the despair at bay. As was expected, it was not enough.

 

Rock stars like Albus are plied with all manner of poisons and distractions to feed their demons without ever having to ask. Backstage, there were always hollow supplements to maintain his sunny exterior as readily available as multivitamins - whiskey to keep him smiling stupidly while the emptiness inside consumed him, Vicodin to quiet the ever-present anxiousness he felt in the absence of Scorpius, a pretty boy to shallowly flirt with when the loneliness became unbearable, an entourage to kiss his arse and make him feel worth something when the demon made him hate himself. For a couple of years, Albus could sustain himself on a steady diet of screaming fans, prescription pills, and plastic people.

 

But it was still not enough.

 

Albus came home at the end of tour one day, twenty-two with the exhaustion of a middle-aged man, and more alone than he’d ever been in his whole life. The flat he shared with Scorpius had been uninhabited for so long, so deeply devoid of human presence, that the dust had taken the place of the residents. He wanted nothing more than to sink into Scorpius’ arms and reacquaint himself with his other half. But Scorpius was doing runway shows an ocean away.

 

 _The Interim_ \- This is where Albus’ head and heart were when he began to write songs for his latest album, aptly titled. At the bottom of that insurmountable chasm between unfathomable heights. In that state of constant need that makes him feel like a horny, hormonal, angst-ridden fifteen-year-old all over again. The _in between_ days of anxiousness and impatience and desperation, before seeing Scorpius again.

 

Nothing can truly sate Albus’ addiction to the heaven that Scorpius makes him feel – not even Scorpius can anymore. Once he had let the demon in, it had taken control of every aspect of Albus’ life. The demon has become all-encompassing in the same way that Albus’ love for Scorpius had once been.

 

 

And the demon must be fed. It must be appeased with the darkness from which it was born.

 

 

~//~

 

 

“Are you hungry?” Huldi asks, lazily tracing Albus’ bare arm with a fingertip.

 

Albus instinctively flinches from the unexpected touch that startles him out of his sleepy daze.

 

Huldi notices the adverse reaction to his touch and he seems offended. “You’re on edge,” he assesses.

 

Albus throws off the blankets and sits up in Huldi’s bed, facing away from the other man. “I should go. I don’t feel right sleeping here tonight.”

 

Huldi moves from his reclining position and folds himself around Albus from behind. He mumbles into the back of Albus’ neck between kisses, “Then don’t sleep. Let’s stay up all night and fuck until dawn.” His teeth gently nip at Albus’ nape.

 

Albus can feel his skin crawl with iniquity and shrinks away. He groans wearily, “I don’t want to play anymore, Huldi. I’m really sore, yeah?” He can still feel the dull ache in his muscles and the lingering burn of the lashes he took upon his shoulders.

 

“I wasn’t suggesting that I spank you until dawn,” Huldi replies wryly, nipping harder as if to reprimand Albus.

 

Albus flinches slightly. Huldi soothes the bite with a wet, open-mouthed kiss upon the back of Albus’ neck. Huldi’s voice pours behind Albus’ ear, over his shoulder, like tendrils of smoke searing his skin and enchanting his body to react against better judgment. “You were such a good boy tonight, Albie. I just want to make you feel nice.”

 

Huldi could almost be mistaken for a powerful sorcerer, ensnaring Albus in his dark magic. He’s that fucking good and it gets Albus every time – he’s so coercive that even though guilt and obligation pull Albus towards home, he ends up staying more often than not. It doesn’t help Albus’ nearly non-existent sense of responsibility that Huldi is always so generous with his drugs. It’s easy for Albus to shove his commitments to the very back of his mind with a sharp inhale of white powder.

 

But Albus is sober enough right now to know better. He’s been leaving Scorpius alone at night far too often for it not to raise suspicions. And though Scorpius has yet to confront him with these suspicions, Albus knows that his husband isn’t stupid. And Albus still loves Scorpius enough to not wish more mental anguish upon him.  

 

Albus fights the magnetic pull of Huldi’s seduction and gently removes himself from Huldi’s arms as he stands from the bed. “I need to leave now if I’m going to be back by the time, erm…” Albus trails off as he searches the floor for his clothes, deciding it would be wise not to voice his reason for wanting to make a quick exit. If he can leave Huldi’s now, he can be home before Scorpius returns from work.

 

Huldi drawls sarcastically, sneering, “Run home to your cold, little wifey, then.” Even though Albus hadn’t spoken Scorpius’ name, Huldi still knows. “Go home to your cold bed and your cold, miserable existence.”

 

“You assume too much,” Albus snaps, regaining his old sense of self – the one he loses when he’s under Huldi’s control, under his sensual enchantment, beneath domineering hands.

 

“Do I?” Huldi knowingly smirks up at him from the bed, moving toward him, predatory and slow, “If it weren’t true, you wouldn’t have come to me.”

 

At once, Albus feels small again, without Huldi having to raise a hand to him. Huldi holds Albus in his stare, somehow able to assert his dominance with just his eyes, even from his seated position. His arms snake around Albus’ waist. He never breaks his stare as he parts his lips and presses them to Albus’ chest. His tongue sweeps Albus’ nipple and the warm metal of his lingual piercing works like a trigger – that metal ball has become so synonymous with pleasure that feeling it makes Albus’ cock twitch. And because he’s still naked, Huldi is very aware of the effect he has.

 

Huldi flashes his deliciously malicious grin and Albus could almost be convinced that he wants another spanking. “You come to me because he doesn’t understand you like I do. He doesn’t know who you really are inside – all he knows is the child you once were and not the man you’ve become. He doesn’t _want_ you – the _real_ you.” He’s hitting home so fucking hard that his truth hurts more than his leather whips. “And even if he did see you for what you really are, he wouldn’t know what to do with you.”

 

“Oh, and you do?” Albus asks challengingly, because he’s not so ensnared that he will easily concede.

 

Huldi’s hands come away from Albus’ waist to grab him firmly by his cock and balls. Albus bites his lip to stifle a whimper when Huldi pulls in painfully opposed directions. “Do you doubt me, boy?”

 

Albus has played with Huldi enough to know that Huldi has just broken one of their previously established terms. He has engaged Albus in a role-play scene without his consent. He’d been so good about clearly delineating when he’s playing that this violent, physical expression of his dominance comes as a shock.

 

“We’re not playing,” Albus manages in a pained, strangled, growl. He clenches a hand around Huldi’s shoulder, as much as an act of retaliation as a necessity to keep from buckling from the pain.

 

Huldi doesn’t relent. Albus tries his safe word. “Red,” he whimpers.

 

“It ceased to be role-play the moment you let me fuck you.” Huldi wrenches harder, twisting as viciously as his venomous words.

 

The pain he inflicts causes Albus’ vision to become blurred with tears and speckled with bright spots of light. Albus can no longer remain stoic. He cries out and Huldi grins smugly. For a moment, Albus thinks he’s going to pass out or vomit, but then Huldi releases him. He drops to his knees and clutches his tortured genitals gingerly, still reeling from the lingering pain.

 

As if Huldi hadn’t been the culprit, he soothes Albus with calming tones as he guides him back onto the bed. “Lie down. You’ll recover quicker – return blood flow to your brain.”

 

It takes a good, long minute or more, curled in a fetal position on the bed, before the pain begins to subside - before the capacity to speak returns to him. And in that time, Huldi whispers words of reassurance. “You’re okay, Albie… You’re alright…”

 

But Albus is far from okay. He wants to tell Huldi to go fuck himself – to get the Hell off of him and to stop petting him as if he’s simply a child with a scraped knee. His stomach is still too cramped and his breathing is still too erratic to form words. He feels helpless in his inability to calm down enough to talk, which just makes him cry harder, and exacerbates his frustration.

 

“You’re a good boy. That’s it. Breathe slow,” Huldi encourages him. He sounds so decidedly _not_ patronizing that it is eerie and disturbing. “I forgive you. No need to cry.”

 

Albus is terrified. Because he realizes that Huldi isn’t just a nice boy with a kinky side. Huldi Reinhart is completely unapologetic and quite possibly psychotic. And Albus needs to get as far away from him as quickly as he can. When he finds his voice, as mangled as it may sound, he pleads raggedly. “I can’t do this anymore.”

 

“You don’t have to do anything. I’ll take care of you,” Huldi whispers, nuzzling his face into the back of Albus’ neck.

 

Albus feels paralyzed by the persistent ache and by his fear, but he manages to insist. “I don’t want to see you anymore.”

 

“That’s a lie,” Huldi says calmly, but with a tinge of hurt raising the octave of his voice.

 

“You _hurt_ me,” Albus quietly growls indignantly.

 

Huldi sighs softly and plies the back of Albus neck with little kisses again as he explains, “I was scared. I reacted out of fear. It was a moment of weakness. But I’m stronger than that. I can be stronger for you.”

 

Albus could almost be fooled by Huldi’s gentleness – by the sweetness of his kisses and the vulnerability of his words. But, even as the pain dissipates, Albus suspects that every tender kiss is dipped in poison and manipulation.

 

“Well, _I’m_ not stronger than that. I can’t be what you want me to be,” Albus insists, “I _won’t_ be.”

 

“Albie, look at me. Please,” Huldi pleads quietly, but Albus refuses to turn around to face him. “I don’t expect you to be anything you’re not. Nobody else can say the same. Not Scor, not your fans. When you’re with me, you can be everything, or you can be nothing. You can just _be_.”

 

This strikes a cord deep inside Albus. He’s reminded of why he had been so drawn to Huldi. Huldi had provided him with, not just an easy escape, but a complete departure from the expectations that had weighed down so heavily on his shoulders. He turns and finds himself lying in Huldi’s arms.

 

Huldi’s eyes are sincere and Albus begins to doubt that he’s being manipulated, now that his judgment is not being skewed by pain. But he still has to question Huldi. “You say you don’t expect me to be anything. But that’s not entirely true. There are very clear expectations for somebody serving as your boy, and I don’t want to do it anymore.”

 

“I told you this isn’t a game anymore. It’s _real_ for us now,” Huldi says, as if Albus is pitifully ignorant.

 

“What does that even mean?” Albus scoffs, finding Huldi’s declaration to be more than slightly alarming.

 

Huldi cups Albus’ cheek in his hand and chuckles mirthfully despite Albus’ angry expression. “You’re a bit daft.”

 

Albus jerks away from Huldi’s caress, affronted and confused. “Well, fuck you too,” he huffs.

 

Huldi explains with a soft, placating grin, “My cock, my trust, and my love are not so easily earned. And you, Albus, have the distinction of being the only one to have earned all three.”

 

Albus somehow doesn’t feel flattered and just feels uneasy. “I doubt that,” he mutters.

 

“Why? Do you fancy yourself so unredeemable that you are un-deserving of love?” Huldi reasons with him, “So deceitful, that you’re un-deserving of trust? So fucked up that you don’t deserve a good fuck?”

 

Albus is beginning to see how Huldi has the tendency to turn things around so that the focus of blame or suspicion is averted to Albus. And he’s too bloody tired to put up with Huldi’s veiled manipulation. He rolls his eyes as he rolls off the bed once more, moving as quickly as his aching body will allow.

 

“I’m a horrible person. I admit. But that doesn’t give me license to keep blowing off Scor.” He asserts definitively, “I’m going home.”

 

Huldi remains lounging on the bed and says flippantly, “Fine. Go home. But remember this: I’m the only one that wants you. The _real_ you.”

 

He continues to speak calmly and casually as he pulls a tiny vial from a drawer and empties its white contents onto the bedside table. “I’m the only one who will ever accept every part of you – all the dark parts and secret parts and parts you can’t show anyone else, not even your husband.”

 

Huldi cuts the powder into thin lines with a razor blade as Albus gets dressed and watches from the corner of his eyes with growing interest. “If you go home to your Ice Queen, you’ll have to lie and pretend and suppress your true self,” says Huldi, “You will never truly be happy with him. You will never be fulfilled. You will never be satisfied.”

 

And with those last words, he snorts a line of cocaine with routine ease. Albus tenses with need. Huldi gestures at him with the tube he’d just used to take that hit. Albus doesn’t realize he’d been aching for it until he finds himself twitching, almost imperceptibly.

 

But Huldi misses nothing. “You have to take the edge off somehow or you’ll be a wreck the whole way back to London. And then you’ll be cranky when you see Scor. If that isn’t a set up for a domestic dispute, I don’t know what is.” Huldi is so right that it’s infuriating.

 

Albus sighs heavily, defeated. “Just one.” He doesn’t know who he hates more right now – Huldi, or himself.

 

One hit becomes two, because Huldi has cut four lines and he can’t finish them all nor put it back in the vial, and it would be a waste. Taking the edge off becomes a full on high. And when Albus is high, he can’t say no. So he doesn’t shirk Huldi’s kisses. And he doesn’t protest when Huldi puts his pretty mouth on his cock - because it’s the least Huldi can do after hurting him, right? And a blow job becomes a cocaine-fueled marathon fuck until the sun comes up, exactly the way that Huldi wants it – trapped in a dawn-out, endless loop of tension and release, of drug-addled restless sex to frustrated ejaculation that ceases to satisfy.

 

Now Huldi will never be content to have one dark facet of Albus – Huldi must own them all – every shard of Albus’ obsidian black heart.

 

And when Albus comes crashing down from his high, it’s the next day, and he falls into a fitful, nightmare-wrought sleep to the sound of Huldi whispering over and over like the sinister words of a spell, “You’re mine, Albus… I love you so much… You’re mine… ”

 

 

~//~

 

 

A knock at the door of Albus’ flat startles him out of his hung-over stupor. He’s content, or more likely resigned, to not answer it. Nobody he wants to see would be knocking. This is not to say that somebody using the floo, or somebody who is able to apparate through the wards, is anybody Albus wants to see either. Really, Albus just wants to be alone. He wants his head to stop pounding, and the rapping at the door isn’t helping.

 

“Al, it’s dad.” Of course. Bloody Harry Potter has come to put his nose where it isn’t welcome – to save the day – to be the hero – to make the world a better place. Maybe this is just Albus’ withdrawal talking, making him more bitter than is warranted.

 

Albus flicks his wand in the direction of the noise from his sprawled position on the sofa and the door unlocks with a loud click, ushering in his father. He comes in without a word, but the sound of a plastic bag rustling hints that he’s bearing gifts. Albus doesn’t move, doesn’t even greet his father. A large jar of soup is placed on the coffee table in front of him with a heavy _clunk_ , and a nudge at his feet makes him pull his legs up with an annoyed, pained whine.

 

“Gods, you must really be on death’s door. Glad I came equipped with Gran’s chicken soup,” his dad says, subtle and quiet in his fatherly humor.

 

“Huh?” Albus simply replies, staring at the jar, feeling uncharacteristically nauseated by its contents, which had once been so comforting. Nothing was better for a hangover than Molly Weasley’s home made chicken soup. But Al’s sickened feeling is unlike any post-bender headache and can’t simply be quelled with Gran’s comfort food.

 

“You made such a production out of promising you’d be home for your mum’s birthday dinner, that I figured you _must_ have been awfully ill to have missed it.”

 

Albus makes a breathy sound between a horrified gasp and a pitying moan, admonishing himself. He turns to bury his head in the sofa cushion and mutters, “Fuck… That was last night…”

 

“Yeah,” his dad drawls, with a thin twinge of reproach, but still with his usual forgiving undertone.

 

He’d forgotten completely and utterly. “Shit,” Albus huffs quietly.

 

“Exactly. Deep in it, in fact. With mum, at least,” says his dad.

 

Albus gingerly pulls himself up into an upright position, seated on the couch near his dad. He’s feeling so guilty that he still can’t look at his father. “I’m sorry. I wanted to come, honestly. I must’ve --”

 

“Save it, Al. It’s okay.” He puts up a hand to quiet his son, and Albus is saved from coming up with a lame excuse.

 

Albus is ashamed of forgetting his priorities – of detaching from reality so utterly that he’d entirely missed an important family gathering. It was unlike him to do so without prior apology. When Albus had left school to pursue his career, he’d missed out on a lot, and he had always been apologetic of the fact. He’d missed Lily’s graduation from Hogwarts, missed James’ first match with Puddlemere, missed Granddad’s retirement party. He never missed his parents’ birthdays, even if all he could do was firecall to acknowledge it.

 

“I’m not here to make you feel like rubbish for missing mum’s birthday. But we really need to talk.” His dad says softly, yet still conveying his deep concern – a concern that also shows itself on his furrowed brow.

 

This concern makes Albus’ back go rigid in his seat. No matter the gentle tone of his father’s voice, a conversation that began with _we need to talk_ had never historically resulted in anything pleasant. Albus gets a momentary reprieve when there is another knock at the door. This time, Albus’ dad answers it and returns with a large bouquet of flowers.

 

“I’m guessing it’s from a fan?” he says, handing it to Albus with a small smile. “The presents you must get on a regular basis – I can’t even imagine,” he muses.

 

Albus cracks a humble little grin, though it hides his alarm. The truth is, nobody sends gifts to his flat. The exact address of the apartment he shares with Scorpius is a well-kept secret. He takes the flowers and pulls a tiny card from the arrangement. It is simply signed in heavy, black ink, _H.R._ , with an adjacent black heart.

 

Albus feels a shock of burning panic shooting up his spine, making his throat tighten and his brow sweat. He has never given his address to Huldi. And now Huldi somehow knows where he lives. This is not a token of Huldi’s affection. It is a reminder – a reminder of just how much he’s owned – of the inescapable grip Huldi has on him.

 

He swallows hard and does his best to let his expression do most of the lying for him. “I’ve got such sweet fans… But why don’t you give these to mum? Let her know I’m sorry?”

 

“Not a bad idea, but you should really drop by the house, yeah?” his dad suggests, and then adds, because he knows his son all too well, “When you’re feeling up to it?”

 

Albus nods gently. “Should I, erm, get dressed so we can go somewhere to talk?”

 

“No, I think here and now is fine.” He takes a deep cleansing breath and sits on the heavy, stone coffee table so that he’s directly in front of his son – so that Albus cannot ignore the lines of anguish and anxiety carving themselves into Harry Potter’s face. And that’s the last thing that Albus wants to see in his father’s expression – the man that already carries the weight of the wizarding world, fraught with sadness over his youngest son.

 

Albus swallows the guilt to go along with the fear that’s roiling in his already sour stomach as he realizes, _oh gods, dad knows_. Of course, he knows. Not only is he the head of the DMLE with all the surveillance resources that come with the title, he’s _Dad_. Albus’ father has always had the uncanny ability to read him like a book, and maybe it’s because Harry sees so much of himself in Albus.

 

“Remember, I love you. I always will, no matter what.” His father puts a hand on Albus’ shoulder, and the gesture is warm – not unwelcome, given the heightened tension in the moment. “Albie, you have a problem…” The words are firm, but somehow also compassionate.

 

It’s all that Albus needs to break down. And it says a lot about the fragile nature of his emotions lately that it had taken so little. His eyes well-up with tears. His gaze lifts to the ceiling, unwilling to let his tears fall, unable to look his father in the eyes – eyes that are equally green, equally deep, yet reflect none of the evil that resides in Albus’ own.

 

“How did you know?” Albus asks, at a loss for anything else to say. What else _can_ one say when one’s father calls him out on his adultery?

 

“I’m no expert on addiction, but I’ve seen enough addicts in my line of work to recognize the signs,” his father says, sympathetic and devoid of judgment.

 

Albus blinks quickly, narrowing his eyes at his father, able to look at him now – now that he’s quite sure his dad is mistaken. “What are you talking about?”

 

“Al, you don’t have to tell me specifics. But I want to get help for you. I mean, I’m not naïve – I know that part of the rock star lifestyle is to indulge in substances a bit enthusiastically, but… It’s gone beyond that. It’s affecting your relationships with everybody around you. You’re blowing off your family. You’re hardly home, and it’s affecting your marriage, from what I gather from Scor. You’re saying odd things to the press. And, no offense, you look physically unwell.”

 

 _Merlin’s fucking balls… This is an Intervention_ , Albus thinks to himself.

 

Deeply offended that his father would think so lowly of him, Albus shoots up from his seat and snaps, “I’m not a bloody drug addict, dad. Honestly, I know you think I’m a fuck up, but I didn’t realize you thought I was _that_ much of a fuck up.”

 

“Sit down, Albus,” his father says sternly, raising his voice only slightly, “I never said you were a fuck up. I have _never_ said that to you.”

 

Albus plops down on a nearby armchair and mutters, “But you’ve thought it. I mean, how could you not? I’m the only one who didn’t get sorted into Gryffindor. The only one who wasn’t good enough to make the quidditch team. The only one who didn’t finish school,” he compares himself to his siblings, dredging up old bitterness he’d thought he’d left behind when he dropped out of Hogwarts.

 

“So you’re not just like your brother and sister or even like mum and me. That’s alright. I didn’t have kids so that they could be replicas of myself. You have _always_ reveled in your uniqueness – _always_ embraced the differences that set you apart from Lily and Jamie.

 

And don’t you ever tell me that I haven’t done the same, because, god damn it, I’ve done it to a fault. You’ve gotten away with so much nonsense _because_ you’re different – _because_ I accepted this about you and loved you for it. I mean, come _on,_ Al! You bloody left home at sixteen. You eloped at eighteen. And your mum and I just _let_ you, because we didn’t want to stifle who you are, even if it meant letting you do things that seem less than wise.

 

And then you show up to Sunday dinner one night, high as a kite, and I’m inclined to chalk it all up to – _Oh, that’s just Albie being Albie – he’s always going to do whatever he wants_. I can’t do that anymore. I’m not going to make excuses for you in my head anymore. I can’t idly watch you making bad choices anymore because your bad choices are having adverse effects. You’re _destroying_ yourself. You will destroy the people around you as well, if you continue down this path.”

 

All the tears that Albus had been holding back come flooding down his face. He huffs angrily, unable to form words. He can’t believe that _this_ is what his father sees – not a man caught up in a dangerous affair, but a drug addict. He feels betrayed somehow. He thought his father knew him so well, but, just like everyone else, they don’t know him at all. And this fact makes Albus feel so very alone.

 

As if things could not get worse, Scorpius suddenly appears, having apparated home. He’s startled when he finds Harry and Albus in the living room, looking the way they are. “Erm, what the Hell is going on?” Scorpius mutters, glancing between Albus’ tear-stained, distraught face and Harry’s flustered expression.

 

“Good, you’re home, Scorpius. You should be here for this,” says Harry, “Have a seat.”

 

Scorpius tentatively sits on the sofa, looking worried. Harry remains standing, and Albus can’t help feeling like they’re little boys once more being scolded.

 

“Al, your mum and I have found you a drug rehab program at Saint Mungo’s. You can get clean--”

 

Albus interrupts his father and throws his arms in the air, protesting, “I don’t need to go to fucking rehab, dad. Yeah, I admit, I’ve done stuff on occasion, but…”

 

Scorpius snorts derisively at this and crosses his arms. Albus shoots him an affronted glare.

 

“An addict will always downplay how much they use,” his dad says, “And like I said before, you don’t have to tell me specifics. I just want to get you the help you need.”

 

“I hate to sound like an arsehole, but I don’t need your help, dad,” Albus asserts, offended, “Honestly. I don’t have a bloody drug problem.”

 

Scorpius snorts again and rolls his eyes. This time, Albus snaps at his husband. “Oh, fucking spit it out, Scor. What is it?”

 

“He’s right,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief, “For once, your dad is fucking spot on. And I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. I should have figured out that this is what’s been going on. And frankly,” he turns to glare pointedly at his father-in-law, “Harry, I’m miffed that you didn’t talk to me about this sooner.”

 

Scorpius returns his attention to Albus and says, devoid of the same sympathy that Harry had shown, “You have a problem, Al. You can’t even get through a bloody interview without snorting coke. You come home, more often than not, high or hung over – that is, _if_ you come home, which you do so rarely these days. You’re sneaky and secretive and hiding shit from me. You’ve not been yourself. I see it all now in hindsight. It makes perfect sense.”

 

“So, you agree with me that Al has a drug problem?” Harry asks, and Albus feels increasingly like he’s being ganged up on.

 

Scorpius nods, continuing to stare accusingly at Albus. “Yeah. And if you love me, you’ll get help.”

 

Astonished and betrayed, Albus can do nothing but gape at the two people he thought knew him best. “Is that an ultimatum, Scor?”

 

Scorpius pauses and seems to think about it, perhaps second-guessing himself in his hesitation. But then he says firmly, “Yes. I’m tired of your shit.”

 

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Albus breathes out incredulously. He is still in shock that the conversation had escalated so quickly to _this_. He storms off, locks himself in the bathroom and is only slightly disappointed that neither his husband nor his father have bothered to coax him out.

 

But when he does come out, after a hot bath and what seems like an hour of feeling wretched and crying in the tub, he finds Scorpius warming Gran’s soup in the kitchen.

 

“You should eat something,” Scorpius mutters, staring down at the broth simmering in the pot.

 

For some reason, this picture of domesticity breaks Albus’ heart. He doesn’t deserve Gran’s soup. He doesn’t deserve Scorpius’ love. He doesn’t deserve dad’s help. He doesn’t deserve to be taken care of. Surely, Scorpius knows this, and is sticking by him anyway.

 

Albus steps behind Scorpius and tentatively snakes an arm around his waist. He holds him close to his chest and breathes in his familiar scent along with the comforting aroma of chicken soup. He feels Scorpius become tense in his arms.

 

“I _do_ love you. And you _don’t_ deserve my shit,” Albus mumbles somberly.

 

“And?” Scorpius prods stiffly as he stirs the soup.

 

“And, erm… I’m sorry,” Albus offers weakly.

 

Scorpius remains frozen as ice, silent. It is not until Albus moves away that Scorpius seems to relax with a long, slow exhale, as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time Albus had been close. Albus wonders what would cause Scorpius to be so cold beneath his touch. Had the growing rift between them become such a gaping divide? Could Scorpius know more than he’s letting on?

 

“Anything else?” Scorpius asks, unsatisfied with Albus’ lame apology, and rightly so.

 

But Albus can’t offer him anything else. He’s not going to promise that he’ll put himself in rehab. His family thinks he’s got a drug problem, but the truth is that he’s got a problematic lover. He’s not ready to admit it. He will likely never be ready.

 

“And…,” Albus struggles for something to say that will placate his husband. He realizes that it’s pointless to try so hard to find words to reassure Scorpius that they’re going to be okay. Because it isn’t going to be okay. Scorpius doesn’t even know the extent of how irreparably Albus has fucked things up. “And… I should probably give you some space,” he sighs sadly.

 

Scorpius whips around, furious, making Albus flinch from just the fury in his silver blue eyes. “That’s your answer to everything, hm? Running away.” He doesn’t give Albus a chance to defend himself, not that he can find any words with which to do so. Scorpius shoves his shoulder and spits bitterly, “Well, go on then. Deal with your problems the only way you know how.”

 

Albus just stands there, lip trembling, on the verge of tears again, unable to say anything meaningful, afraid he’ll keep saying the wrong thing and continue to make things worse.

 

Scorpius pushes him again, harder this time, provoking him as much as accusing him. “Go on, leave me. I know you want to.”

 

“Is that what _you_ want? Do _you_ want me to leave?” Albus’ question is more confrontational than it needs to be.

 

“What does it matter what _I_ want?” Scorpius huffs, pointing emphatically at his chest, “You haven’t cared about what _I_ want in a long time, Al. So don’t even pretend to care about what I want right now because I know you’re just going to do whatever the fuck you want anyway.”

 

Albus is silent for a long time. He’s already exhausted his tears, though he still can’t help feeling like he needs to cry. “I don’t want to leave you, Scor. But at the same time, I don’t want to stay here and fight with you like this.”

 

“Let me make this easier for you, then.” Scorpius turns away briefly to shut off the stove. He takes off the apron he’d been wearing over his clothes and throws it to the floor. “I’m leaving. When you’re ready to deal with this, owl me.”

 

In a final, desperate gesture, Albus grabs Scorpius’ arm. “Where are you going? Please don’t. You don’t understand.”

 

And now it’s Scorpius’ turn to cry. He stares at Albus, looking frustrated and hopeless. “I’m so bloody tired of this, Albie. I don’t know you anymore. I don’t know where you are half the time. I can’t fix you, and I can’t fix us. Not on my own. Not until you admit that there’s a problem and commit to doing something about it. And I’m not going to stay here and wait for you to come around. I don’t want to be alone here. Because even when you’re here, you’re not really present. And I _need_ you to be fully present… Does that make sense?”

 

Albus nods weakly and mumbles, “It does, I guess… But are you _leaving_ me, leaving me?”

 

Scorpius looks uncertain, as though he hadn’t fully thought it through, which is vaguely reassuring. “I… No… I just… I don’t know.” He heaves a defeated sigh.

 

Albus puts his arms around Scorpius and pleads quietly, murmuring like a sad child, “I love you. I’m here. I’m _here_ , okay? We’re going to deal with this. Together. _Please_ don’t go. _Please_.”

 

It takes an alarmingly long time for Scorpius to reciprocate Albus’ embrace. But when he does, Scorpius’ arms seem to melt around him, and the tension that Albus had felt in his husband’s body begins to loosen. “I love you too, Albie. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

When they kiss, Albus tastes Scorpius’ tears on his lips, and they are bitter sweet. Their kiss deepens and grows feverish. It had been a while since they’ve kissed like this, and Scorpius’ tongue in his mouth somehow feels foreign, Scorpius’ hands on his bare skin somehow feel like that of a stranger’s. And when Scorpius hoists Albus onto the kitchen table, Albus does not feel that sense of playfulness he should feel.

 

Albus isn’t wearing much, having just come out of the shower, so it takes little effort on Scorpius’ part to divest him of his boxer briefs. And when Scorpius pushes into him and fucks him on the table, it feels more like scrambling for purchase than reaching for heaven, as what they had slips away from beneath them.

 

Later, when they stumble into their bed, Albus’ mobile glows with a text message on the bedside table. He quickly sweeps it up and he shoves it into the drawer without even checking it. When he does check it, hours later, after Scorpius has fallen asleep, he finds an alarming number of messages from Huldi. He feels too sick with guilt to read them all. He quickly sends out a reply.

 

_Sorry, spent the day with my dad. Ring you tomorrow._

And Albus wonders how long he can keep lying – lying to his husband, lying to Huldi, lying to himself that he can give these men what they want. Because Albus has nothing left to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, something called The Cursed Child happened. I don't know if it'll show, but everything I wrote prior to the third section of this chapter had been written pre-CC. Not that I've truly taken CC as canon, or let it influence this story. But it has to be noted that I've read CC and I can't un-see what I've seen, though I wish I could. A bit of a spoiler for CC below...
> 
>  
> 
> Okay, so I had outlined everything a year ago, and I just happened to have planned a scene between Albus and Harry in this chapter. Well, I read CC, and I felt determined to write Harry as a father the way I see him - None of that "sometimes I wish you weren't my son" bullshit. 
> 
> And also, I realize that I've been destroying the Albius ship (also called Scorbus) with this story, but I still ship it so fucking hard, and to have it nearly canonized in CC only to have Scorose shoved down my throat at the end... you can say I felt pretty fucking devastated. I seriously was close to tears. So anyway, there's my Cursed Child rant.


	13. James

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter definitely warrants the Explicit rating. You've been warned. Wheee!

**~ 13: James ~**

 

**_“Now that I know that I’m breaking to pieces_ **

**_I’ll pull out my heart and I’ll feed it to anyone”_ **

 

 

The usual spectrum of gemstone colored potion bottles and amber glass pill vials adorns a metal tray set in front of James at the breakfast table. And as he does every day, James fingers each one speculatively, weighing his need. And as to be expected, Teddy is scarfing down his eggs in a hurry, nearly late for work, but not in too much of a rush to go through this bothersome ritual of medication. It’s become a game – the sweetest tease James can come by when he’s starving for entertainment.

James swirls the pad of his finger around the cap of a pill vial, as if circling a pert nipple, and smirks. “Maybe the Hypericum capsules today,” he muses.

He abandons the vial in favor of wrapping his hand around a green potion bottle, sliding down along its slender neck, then splaying his fingers over the bulbous base, then up again, not bothering to be subtle about the vulgar action he’s emulating.

“Or perhaps, Valerian essence…,” he drawls sensually, “Mm, I might fancy a bit of that.”

Teddy seems to ignore any pantomimed innuendo and advises around a mouthful of eggs, “At the very least, take your Hypericum. I don’t want you to be in pain today.” 

James leans forward, forcing Teddy’s attention away from his breakfast, and intones seductively, “Then don’t hurt me, baby.”

Teddy isn’t having any of his games today. “Take your pain meds, James,” he mutters, not amused by James’ flirtatiousness.

James rolls his eyes and relents, resigning to take half his prescribed dose – one capsule. He pops the pill in his mouth with a huff, as if it is beneath him to do so.

Teddy stares at him, expectant and unmoving.

James blinks back and gives him an affronted questioning gesture. _What?_

“Show me,” Teddy says flatly.

Rather than opening his mouth and showing both the top and underside of his tongue to prove that he’s swallowed his medication, James goes a step beyond. He grabs Teddy by his necktie and pulls him into a sloppy kiss. He licks the inside of Teddy’s mouth, disregarding the faint remnants of egg.

Looking startled, and perhaps a bit annoyed, Teddy pulls away and tucks his tie back into his waistcoat, then takes a quick cleansing swig of pumpkin juice. “That’s not what I meant,” he mutters.

James leans back hard in his wheelchair, raises his eyes to the ceiling, and grumbles petulantly under his breath, “It never is.”

Teddy frowns, unwavering in his resolve to get James to follow his healer’s orders. “Valerian too.”

James takes it as a challenge and sips straight from the bottle just to spite Teddy, earning him nothing but ruffled hair, as if he’s a well-mannered dog.

James has by no means taken all the things that Healer Montague had prescribed, but he feels he’s already taken more than he really wants to. He knows it’s not enough to make Teddy happy.

Teddy still kisses James on the cheek before he leaves for work, but it feels like it’s more a force of habit rather than a gesture of real sentiment.

It isn’t until after Teddy is definitely gone that James deigns to take another potion that he knows will have the added side effect of relieving tension. It is exactly what he needs to face Scorpius today.

It has been sixteen hours, and James still has the phantom taste of Scorpius lingering on his tongue, not that he’s really counting. No amount of French kissing his boyfriend, solicited or otherwise, has been able to eliminate the coppery saccharine tinge to the inside of his mouth. He knows the kiss had been entirely born of venom and spite, but that does nothing to negate the fact that it felt really fucking good.

And, Merlin be damned, James _deserves_ to feel good for once. He _deserves_ to feel the heat of a firm body flush against his again, to feel the wet slide of a hot tongue inside his mouth again, to feel the perfect swell of a tight arse grinding down on his lap – _shit_ , he could almost forget it’s his brother’s husband that he’s craving.

The potions take hold of his faculties in a fuzzy, warm wave that sweeps over his body like the coziest blanket. And maybe he’s taken a bit more Valerian than what’s required to make his pain bearable, because he feels like a needy kitten again. Not the intended state of body and mind he’d gone for, but fuck it at this point. Better to be primed for sexual harassment than sexual tension.

When Scorpius doesn’t arrive at his usual time, James is disappointed, and feels stupid for even expecting Scorpius to show up. Of course he’s not coming back to work. Scorpius would sooner punch James in the face than babysit him after the way James had insulted him.

James knows he was out of line. And, yes, he meant every word. But he’s beginning to realize that his intention was not to drive Scorpius away – not anymore, at least. He just wanted Scorpius to wake the fuck up. 

James mopes, not entirely happy about the prospect of spending the day alone, and resigns to go back to bed to sleep off his painkillers. He manages to get undressed down to his boxers and then nestles under the covers to ponder the past actions of his brother-in-law, for he’d shoved these thoughts to the back of his mind until he had no choice but to face them, in the absence of anything else to do.

Because James had never taken the time to get to know his brother’s little blond friend, it is not entirely obvious why Scorpius would want to break James’ face one moment, and then swallow it in the next – other than the fact that James is considerably more attractive than his brother.

Maybe Scorpius wanted vengeance. Maybe Scorpius wanted blood and lust more than stolen kisses. Perhaps Scorpius wanted to hurt Albus, but had been too much of a pussy to do it directly. Maybe Scorpius just wanted what he wasn’t supposed to have because he’d been such a good guy for so long and it had earned him nothing but door mat status. And maybe James just happened to be the perfect vehicle to carry Scorpius’ fury by way of a kiss.

James is just the right amount of bored, entitled, and sex-starved to be okay with that. He’s already over it. He doesn’t even feel the need to tell Teddy about it – it was just a one-off anyway.

James shrugs off the whole incident and resigns to masturbate nostalgically to memories of deep-throating Professor Teddy Lupin in his office rather than wank to vague notions of what it would be like to fuck his brother’s husband. But before he can work up to a good rhythm, a whooshing sound alerts him to somebody coming through the floo in the living room, causing him to still his ministrations and hide his erection.

“Hey Arsehole. Are you here?” Scorpius calls out with his characteristic bored air. “Where are you – are you even alive?” His unaffected drawl slowly moves around the small house, from room to room, and James is rather amused by this game of hide and find. “Maybe you’ve gotten stuck in the bath and drowned? If we’re lucky?”

Finally, Scorpius finds James in his bed with a shit-eating grin. “I know you were hoping to discover my cold, dead body. But my hot living one will have to suffice.”

Scorpius leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed as he heaves an annoyed sigh. “If I’d known you were going to have a lie in this morning, I wouldn’t have bothered to drag my arse out of bed so early.”

James quirks an eyebrow. “Early?” He glances at a nonexistent watch on his bare wrist. “Erm, you’re an hour late, Malfoy. And to be honest, I’m surprised you haven’t quit.”

“And give you the satisfaction of getting rid of me? Not a chance,” Scorpius scoffs. “I’m not here for you; I’m here for Duston.”

“So you’ve said before,” James drawls with a knowing smirk. He thinks he knows why Scorpius is _really_ here.

James is more pleased about the fact that Scorpius actually showed up than he had expected, though he suspects that Scorpius has plans of retaliation up his sleeve. He will have to remain vigilant. It would be so easy for Scorpius to drop James on his arse at any given moment, either literally or figuratively.

He decides that near a bed is the best place to test the waters, should he need a soft place to fall. He puts his legs over the side of the bed and scoots towards the edge of the mattress. “Well, don’t just stand there; do your bloody job,” James snaps haughtily, “I know I’m nice to look at and all, but I’m not here for your entertainment.”

Scorpius rolls his eyes and grudgingly peels himself off the doorway to assist James. “I’ll help you up, but it’s not my job to dress you. Teddy should’ve done it,” he says, clearly feeling imposed upon by Teddy’s apparent oversight. He eyes the wheelchair fleetingly and then passes it over in favor of the crutches, explaining, “Duston won’t thank me for letting you continue to be a lazy-arse.”

Because James enjoys such few pleasures in life that compare to being a royal pain the arse, he refuses the crutches loftily. “My legs are being stubborn today.”

Scorpius pierces him with a narrowed, dubious glare, and resigns to bring the wheelchair close. He makes sure the wheels are locked and he folds down the armrests in preparation. James puts his arms out, and Scorpius hesitantly gets into position to help him up, moving gingerly as if James is covered in filth, rather than barely covered. Scorpius bends at the knees to provide his shoulders for support while also pulling James to a semi-standing position. From the outside, it looks like a tight albeit awkward embrace.

James hazards to let his cheek nuzzle against Scorpius’ before he’s plopped into the wheelchair, and it could almost be taken as an accident, if he hadn’t lingered a second too long. He doesn’t know why he’d even done it and is inclined to blame the potions for turning him into an affection-starved kitten.

Scorpius stares down at him, but not with his usual unaffected, Ice Queen stare. In the same way that James’ face had dawdled next to Scorpius’, so do Scorpius’ eyes rest too long on James’ barely-dressed form – a second too long for it to be innocent.

Scorpius quickly blinks and glances away, knowing he’s been caught, not just looking, but _looking_. “Get dressed, yeah?” he says quietly but curtly, as if personally offended by James’ state of undress.

“But Teddy always dresses me,” James says, not that he thinks Scorpius needs reminding – just a little persuasion by way of helpless puppy-dog eyes. Even if it doesn’t earn him sympathy, at least he’s being a pain in the arse, and it wouldn’t be a day with Scorpius if James weren’t just a little bothersome.

Scorpius’ refusal is resolute, until James proposes, “Or I could spend the whole day in my Skivvies – your choice,” and then Scorpius’ hand is forced.

“Where do you keep your trousers?” Scorpius mutters begrudgingly. He gets as far as grabbing a pair of track pants and going down on one knee to help James slip a foot into the pant leg before questioning the validity of James’ claims. “You’re telling me you’re capable of walking with crutches on a good day, but you can’t bloody put on your trousers yourself?”

Rather than offer a snide remark, James reaches out and rakes his fingers through Scorpius’ blond hair – it feels just as soft as he had imagined it would. Scorpius flinches initially, but then allows the gesture, to James’ utter surprise. “I just want you to do it,” James says, more quietly than he’d ever spoken to Scorpius before, and devoid of his usual sass.

There’s a long, tense pause. Scorpius is looking up skeptically at James from his kneeling position, unsure of what to make of this. And James is staring down at Scorpius, biting the corner of his bottom lip, realizing how desperate he is to be touched, inwardly blaming the potions for emboldening an already audacious Gryffindor.

James’ fingers continue their easy glide through the silken strands of Scorpius’ hair and come to rest on the side of his face. Scorpius stays frozen beneath James’ desirous gaze, beneath James’ softly covetous touch. His cheek is smooth and warm in James’ palm, tinged pink – and James can’t help but compare the color to the shade he wishes he could still inspire in Teddy’s hair.

James muses so quietly that it could have been imagined, “You’re so pretty... How could anyone not treat you like a prince?”

Scorpius lets his eyelids flutter closed as he releases a shuddering breath through parted lips, undone by James’ words.

It’s so easy, James almost feels like he’s taking advantage. But it’s quite the other way around.

James wonders if Scorpius knows just how much James is acquiescing to him in this moment of sincerity.   And at this moment, James’ need ceases to be attributable to potions. Because he finds himself not just wanting to be kissed, but wanting to be kissed by _Scorpius_. He wants to feel the crush of lips again – to taste his own blood in his mouth. 

James has never been one to wait for what he wants. So he leans down towards Scorpius and he takes it.

Scorpius gasps quietly against James’ lips, and James isn’t sure if it’s out of shock or excitement. When he feels a soft, wet tongue sliding into his mouth, James knows it’s the latter. But this is not the clash of teeth and exchange of venom that he had expected. It’s slow and tender, and James feels his own pulse start to rush and his face become flushed and his head getting light.

 _Oh gods_ , he’s kissing Scorpius Malfoy with the gentleness of a dork that actually _cares_ , and the novelty of it makes him feel like a love-struck teenager. _What is even happening?_ He hasn’t felt this way about a kiss since… since… well, Teddy – but not in years. It’s just the right amount of _new_ and _wrong_ to be exactly what he needs right now.

They kiss languidly, so _fucking_ deep and so _fucking_ slow, and James just wants to _drown_ in Scorpius – to allow his tongue to become acquainted with the taste of Scorpius’ mouth, to let his lips become accustomed to the warmth of Scorpius’ breath, to permit his fingertips to map the varying degrees of softness of Scorpius’ skin, to explore without assumptions, to derive pleasure without regard for the other’s own.

A wheelchair with the armrests folded down proves to be a convenient perch for Scorpius to straddle James’ lap. And even more convenient, is the fact that a single article of clothing is the only thing separating James from Scorpius. James can feel everywhere that their bodies align – from their gently heaving chests moving out of sync with erratic breaths, down to Scorpius’ model-perfect arse in tight jeans resting on James’ awakening need, and further still, to where Scorpius’ lanky thighs flank James’ hips, and all the way up to where Scorpius’ fingers mold to the back of James’ neck.

Not so convenient is the fact that Scorpius is wearing anything at all. But James is not deterred. He slips his hands beneath a designer shirt to traverse the lines of Scorpius’ abdomen, which are more defined than James ever expected. But then he remembers that Scorpius has made a career of having a desirable body. And that, in turn, reminds James that Scorpius isn’t just a model, he’s a famous one. And not only is he a famous one, he’s a _notorious_ one. Suddenly, kissing The Ice Prince feels like even more of an accomplishment, coming in at a close second to the triumph of stealing his little brother’s favorite toy. 

Lazy, wet kisses soon give way to sloppy, anxious snogging. The hand cradling his nape tightens suddenly with mounting apprehension as James takes more liberties with his own hands, sliding them over Scorpius’ backside. _Gods_ , what James wouldn’t give to feel that arse unencumbered, to spread it apart and sink in deep, and the thought of it makes his cock _ache_ for it.

But James knows Scorpius will not yield so easily. Scorpius is, after all, a married man – married to James’ brother, no less. If he’s going to get what he wants, he’s going to have to incite more of that vengeful fury out of Scorpius.

James breaks their feverish snogging for a moment to utter sibilantly into Scorpius’ ear, “Something tells me you’re not just kissing me to make me shut up.”

“Pray tell me what that _something_ is,” Scorpius whispers breathily.

James slides a single digit along the furrow of Scorpius seat and drawls, “When was the last time he fucked you? Bet it’s been ages.”

Scorpius reaches behind to grab James by the wrist, and pulls his hand away. “It’s none of your business,” he says loftily, but much less affronted than James would expect. Then Scorpius grins wryly and flips James’ whole game. “But if you must know, he doesn’t fuck me...”

The implications of that statement and the darkness of Scorpius’ grin have James smirking like the devil himself. James reaches hard for the back of Scorpius’ neck and licks across his kiss-swollen mouth. “ _Of course_ he doesn’t,” he drawls throatily against Scorpius’ grinning lips.

And now James can’t decide which way he wants Scorpius more – Scorpius bent over his bed and spread open, or Scorpius buried to the hilt inside of him. He thinks about each prospect as he divests Scorpius of his shirt and decides he wants both. He wants Scorpius in _every_ conceivable way, preferably right fucking now.

It should be noted that James Sirius Potter is a selfish arsehole. He _knows_ he’s a selfish arsehole, and he is unrepentant. And so he feels no remorse, _entitled_ even, when he opens Scorpius’ trousers and reaches for a married man’s cock. He feels the same sick thrill that he had always felt when taking things away from his brother and using them for himself.

Scorpius leans back to give James room to work and stares intently at him. From the fierce gleam in Scorpius’ ice blue eyes, James infers that Scorpius is getting just as much pleasure from hurting Albus as he is. James plies Scorpius’ cock with firm, slow strokes and grins down at the impressive girth he’s able to inspire from it.   There is a sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue, but James swallows it down hard when Scorpius stands up and hefts his erection over James, wielding it like a challenge.

Challenge accepted.

James inwardly smirks as he gazes up at Scorpius with his dick in his hand. James knows that he could topple nations and conquer an empire with a cock in his mouth – he’s that confident in his own prowess. His eyes are deceptively coy and manipulatively worshipful when he cradles the head of that thick cock with his tongue and closes his lips around it. He watches, as Scorpius lets his head tilt back with a deep, blissful groan and clenches his fingers into the hair at the top of James’ head. 

“Just so you know, I still hate you,” Scorpius mutters bitterly.

James wouldn’t have it any other way.

He manages to leer, even with a cock poised between his lips. Scorpius drives his point home by way of his dick to the back of James’ head from the inside. James gags as he tries to counteract the rhythm of Scorpius’ thrust, but then the whole of it goes down smoothly once he resigns to let Scorpius just fuck his face. And then it’s _so bloody good_. Scorpius’ hands are in his hair and his pre-come is on his tongue and his musk is in his head and it’s so wrong and filthy that it’s got him feeling giddy. 

He’s getting lightheaded from the heightened thrill and the lack of air, and so he pulls back with a vulgar, wet sound and gasps. Scorpius takes over with his hand, unwilling to interrupt his race towards release. James is enough of a glutton to want more.

“Off with your trousers,” James orders breathlessly as he pulls his own boxer briefs over his raised hips with a bit of painful effort.

Now James has the full picture, and it actually infuriates him. He grabs two handfuls of that shapely arse, and nips the chiseled line of Scorpius’ hipbone. He growls quietly against the marble-white skin of Scorpius’ torso, “ _Gods_ , you’re perfect. It’s disgusting.”

“Jealous?” Scorpius asks, sounding entirely facetious, perhaps even self depreciating.

James thinks he might hate Scorpius a little bit less now that he knows he isn’t as vain as he’d originally perceived.

James doesn’t deign to answer and instead gazes up at Scorpius and asserts, “He doesn’t deserve you,” with a worshipful kiss offered to the tip of his cock head. He’s talking about himself and Teddy as much as he’s talking about Scorpius and Albus.

“Neither do you,” Scorpius replies with a smirk as he slowly lowers himself onto James’ lap once more, this time angling his hips just right so that James’ erection slides along the groove of his arse.

James tangles his fingers into the back of Scorpius’ hair and whispers, “You son-of-a-bitch, don’t tease me,” as he pitches his leaking cock upward to steal more of that wet friction Scorpius had treated him to. 

Scorpius catches James’ bottom lip between his teeth before retorting, “Then stop wanking about and fuck me.”

They exchange a quick glance as if to ask one another, _are you sure?_ But it’s fleeting. 

James’ dick is already so wet that it only takes a bit of spit to help ease into Scorpius, not that any of it is easy. Every bit of effort is met with an accompanying ache, every surge of pleasure is coupled with pain scorching up his spine, every moan that’s fraught with ecstasy pulls another fraught with distress. And James loves every minute of it.

At some point, Scorpius asks, “Is this hurting you?” And James can’t be sure if Scorpius is really all that concerned or only just curious.

“Yeah, but does it matter?” James replies with a question of his own, delivering a particularly deft thrust.

That thrust elicits a moan from Scorpius that sounds halfway between _please stop_ and _don’t fucking stop._ “ _No_. Not in the least.”

James finds that oddly comforting – the fact that Scorpius isn’t deterred by James’ pain - the fact that they can fuck to their cold heart’s content and not care about the consequences of who or what they’re hurting.

And just when James thinks he’s found the perfect detached, emotionless lover, Scorpius goes and wrecks James to the point of orgasm with a few choice words whispered sibilantly into the side of his sweat-slicked neck. “You’re already broken, so who fucking cares?”

And then, Merlin-be- _damned_ … James is falling _hard_. At least that’s what he’s thinking when he’s balls deep inside Scorpius Malfoy, filling him with his pent-up seed. Because James remembers that he’d said those exact same words to Teddy, only to be met with pity and denial. And here’s Scorpius, mirroring the beauty of his ugly situation, in all of its tragic romanticism, which is apparently exactly what James needs.

Scorpius doesn’t give James a chance to catch his breath after he’s pulled out, and picks him up like a limp mannequin, requiring strained effort, only to deposit him, not delicately, on the bed. He folds James like a book and perches James’ ankles on his shoulders before getting himself wet with spit, and maybe with a bit of James’ own spunk. 

Even before Scorpius enters him, James feels like he’s splitting in two. He’s breaking in ways that are somehow cathartic. And while Scorpius fucks him with the same level of gentleness he’d exercised during physical therapy (i.e., none), James thinks this is the only way he’ll ever feel whole again. He has to be completely deconstructed before he’s put back together.

Scorpius drives in deep, chiseling away at James with each vindictive thrust, pushing in so hard that James wonders if Scorpius means to hurt him – if he needs to be brutal to justify his actions.

He can’t help himself and asks, judgment coloring his words heavily, “Do you fuck Al like this?”

James really doesn’t need to question it. Somehow he knows that this isn’t what Scorpius and Albus do – that this is something Scorpius needs to do with James, and only James. And that somehow makes him feel special while also making him feel like he’s a means to an end, which doesn’t feel very good at all.

Scorpius doesn’t answer. “You talk too much,” he says, and silences James with a breathless kiss. 

By the end, James is in so much pain and so spent that he’s shivering. And maybe Scorpius feels guilty, or maybe he’s not as cold-hearted as he claims, for he draws a hot bath for James and fills it with herbs that will soothe his ravaged bones.

When Scorpius gets into the tub and silently cradles James’ aching body with his own, James knows he’s in trouble. He’s in too deep – deeper than he ever thought was possible - with a man he has no right to fall in love with.

 

~//~

 

“You gonna get up for me today, Jamie?” Scorpius asks, murmuring the words behind James’ ear as his arms come around to fold across James’ chest.

The heat of Scorpius’ breath and the sibilant sound of his words have James’ eyes fluttering closed against his will. He tilts his head back and turns his face to let his teeth gently scrape Scorpius’ jaw. “I’m already up for you, baby,” James drawls, smirking.

Scorpius tips his head down and intones melodically, “I see… _Circe_ , at least have the decency to let your boyfriend’s tea grow cold before you spring a hard-on for another man.”

James knows that Scorpius is half teasing, even if he’s right. Scorpius flicks his wand to quickly send the remnants of breakfast into the sink, putting evidence of Teddy’s presence out of sight. But it is only superficial.

Traces of Teddy are everywhere – his clothes strewn about the bedroom, his books lining the walls, his scent in the sheets, his lavender eyes shining and his sweet smile grinning from moving pictures that capture his love for James like time capsules. Teddy is as deeply ingrained into the wood of the cottage as he is in James’ memories, as far back as infancy. And James has to tell himself that it is all in the past.

He has to avert his eyes from those photos of him and Teddy giggling in each other’s arms as stupid kids who don’t know they’re in love yet, or him and Teddy frolicking on an exotic beach over a dirty weekend, or half drunk and raising bottles of ale on a celebratory bender, or nuzzling one another in front of their Christmas tree. He has to remind himself that this house is more like a history museum than a reflection of the couple that lives here, for there have not been new happy memories with which to decorate the walls for quite some time.

“Hey,” James murmurs quietly as he takes Scorpius’ hand to divert his attention away from cleaning up the kitchen. “Take me outside.” He gazes up at Scorpius and presses his lips to Scorpius’ knuckles, making a concerted effort not to let the glint of Scorpius’ platinum wedding band catch his eye.

“Sure,” Scorpius agrees softly with a smile – a smile that turns calculating. “After you’ve taken all your meds.” 

James scoffs just because he can never let on how much Scorpius has changed his outlook on recovery. He grumbles with every pill and complains with every potion. But he takes it all – every single one at their prescribed dose. And he doesn’t care that it makes him feel a bit fuzzy-headed. Because Scorpius makes him feel like he can do anything – like he can be king of the world again. And James doesn’t know how or why Scorpius has managed to give him so much hope, but he won’t question it. Because he’s happy for a change.

 

Behind the cottage, Scorpius leans casually against a tree, only faintly supervising behind sunglasses as James takes several tentative steps with his crutches. And maybe it is Scorpius’ perfect balance between _doesn’t give a fuck_ and _cares more than he should_ that James had needed all along. Each step becomes increasingly difficult to control and James is still too proud to let it show entirely. He doesn’t want Scorpius to know how embarrassed he feels when he reaches the point at which his knees are buckling beneath him – when he uses the crutches more than he uses his legs.

But Scorpius has been his aide long enough to know exactly what James is experiencing and doesn’t give him sympathy, nor does he berate him. And just when James is about to growl with frustration and throw his crutches to the ground, Scorpius gives him some underhanded encouragement – exactly the right sort of push to motivate James without feeling like he’s being patronized.

Scorpius raises his sunglasses to the top of his head and quirks the corner of his mouth, looking all too amused. “If you make it all the way over to this tree, there will be a prize waiting for you.”

“If it isn’t the Quidditch World Cup, I don’t want it,” James replies, just to be difficult.

James takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and focuses on the movement of his legs, imagining each muscle contracting to pull on the appropriate bones, rather than forcing himself to move with sheer will alone. Before he knows it, a hand reaches around his waist, and when he opens his eyes, Scorpius is there, wedged between him and the tree, and James feels like he’s coming home.

Scorpius cups James’ face with his hand and smiles. James could almost be fooled into believing that Scorpius feels something for him, more deeply than sexual attraction, more concrete than a determined sense of duty towards his recovery. “You did it, Arsehole,” he says with tenderness contrary to what his words imply. Then he presses the softest kiss to James’ mouth and James feels like he could melt.

James purrs against Scorpius’ lips, “Don’t tell me _that_ was my prize. Because that was pretty lame.” In reality, this little kiss means more than any passing peck on the cheek that Teddy gives him on his way out.

Scorpius side-steps to escape from between James and the tree, smirking slyly. “Your prize is that you get to do it again.”

“Dick,” James mutters as he watches Scorpius strutting towards the house.

Scorpius pauses a quarter of the way down the lawn and calls over his shoulder, “What are you bloody waiting for?” Then he gives James extra motivation by pulling off his shirt. He turns and carefully walks backwards while unbuckling his belt. “You don’t expect me to fuck _myself_ now, do you?”

When Scorpius turns around to continue walking away whilst shucking his clothes, James has to just bite his lip and watch that perfect body in retreat – the subtle swagger of those hips and smooth shoulders, the elegant curve of that long spine, the tight swell of that sweet arse. He still can’t believe his brother’s level of stupidity for taking such a beautiful human specimen for granted.

It’s not until Scorpius disappears into the house that James snaps himself out of his love-struck fog and berates himself for it. And as much as he wants to run inside, he won’t ever let Scorpius knows he’s eager. In fact, he’ll make him wait. He’ll take his sweet time walking to the house – not that he’s physically capable of doing anything but.

By the time he’s through the back door, stepping into the kitchen, James is sweating from the effort and clinging to his crutches as the only thing holding him up. He’s thankful that Scorpius isn’t there to see him struggling. He catches his breath and wipes the perspiration from his brow. He feels like a fool for working so hard for Scorpius.

But when he finally finds him in the living room, James thinks that maybe it’s worth it. Scorpius is naked, lounging like Michelangelo’s Adam along the sofa, with an arm propped up on a bended knee. James swallows down an appreciative moan in favor of chuckling deep in his throat with closed lips.

“You’re daft if you think I can be arsed to fuck you after all that,” James scoffs, feeling it entirely, but maybe not meaning it sincerely.

Scorpius chuckles softly in return. “Maybe not. But you’ve earned it. Hell, _I’ve_ earned it after putting up with you.”

He reaches a hand towards James, and he looks just like a golden-haired angel reaching down from heaven, and James thinks that Scorpius only truly shines when he’s not enshrouded by Albus’ dark shadow. It’s probably why James had never noticed how beautiful Scorpius was before.

James practically collapses onto the couch with a weary sigh and Scorpius doesn’t waste time with further seduction. Scorpius’ head is in James lap quicker than James can say he’s too tired. Scorpius swallows him up while James swallows the last remnants of guilt, by way of turning down the framed picture of him and Teddy on the table.

James doesn’t have to do a thing. He’s a king on his rightful throne, with a glimmering prince of ice sitting on his lap and riding his cock. It’s all so fucking brilliant and all so fucking perfect, and the sounds that Scorpius makes when he’s impaling himself on James are like the accolades he so dearly misses from his quidditch days, except more vulgar, but interestingly not much more.

_Oh, you’re so fucking good._

He’s riding so high on this bliss that it makes him feel invincible again, like he’s soaring above that quidditch pitch in Spain on that fateful summer day. But he’s mistaken in thinking that Scorpius feels equally unbreakable.

“I know Albus doesn’t fuck you the way I do,” James hisses behind Scorpius’ ear, “He doesn’t make you feel this good. He doesn’t give it to you the way you like it.”

“Shut the fuck up, James. Don’t ruin it,” Scorpius reprimands with a breathless whine.

But James can’t bloody help himself. He takes Scorpius’ flapping erection in his hand, strokes in time with the upward thrust of his hips, and continues to drag his brother’s name through the mud because the notion of fucking Albus’ husband is surprisingly more exhilarating than he ever dreamed. “You can’t deny it. I don’t think anybody in the world would choose Al over me. I’m James Fucking Potter, damn it.”

Scorpius lets out a strangled cry and comes hard through James’ fist. “I fucking _hate_ you.”

James is particularly brutal when he drives home his final thrusts before coming inside Scorpius. Scorpius doesn’t even give James the courtesy of letting him ride out his last spasms, and abruptly dismounts.

“You’re such a dick,” Scorpius mutters angrily as he collects himself and heads for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

James flinches in Scorpius’ wake, but pretends to be unfazed. “Awh, I love you too!” he calls out facetiously.

 

James is only mildly concerned when Scorpius leaves early, leaving him to fend for himself before Teddy gets home. Not that it’s impossible to get dressed and go about his day – it’s painful, and not without its challenges, but not impossible. When Teddy comes through the floo that night, James is on the couch, flipping through a magazine absently.

“Hey, babe,” Teddy greets him cheerily, although with an exhausted sigh. He drops a kiss onto the top of James’ head. “Where’s Scorpius?”

“Had to leave early for something,” James mumbles, pretending to be more engrossed in the article he’s not actually reading.

From the corner of his eye, James watches Teddy put the framed photo of them back the way it belongs on the table. James’ heart involuntarily tightens.

“You okay?” Teddy asks, only mildly more concerned than usual, gently massaging his shoulder.

James glances up and cracks a weak smile. “Mm-hm. Just a bit tired.”

Teddy’s own smile is genuine and loving. It’s the same familiar smile that James has known his whole life - The same smile that has greeted him every morning for more years than he cares to recall. And the gravity of what he’s been doing these past couple of weeks – the extent of his betrayal – is beginning to crack James’ steel veneer.

But Teddy has learned that nothing gets to James. So it’s particularly alarming when James clasps the hand that’s resting on his shoulder and he gazes up at Teddy with eyes that are perhaps too glassy to be normal.

“I love you, baby,” James says. He forces his smile into something more real, which for him, translates into one that’s wry. “Be a doll, and make us dinner, yeah?” He adds, to help fight back his tears further.

“Of course,” Teddy replies happily, completely ignorant of the inner turmoil that’s going on in James’ heart.

And more than anything, James feels sorry for him - For this sweet, innocent man who’s still foolish enough to love James unquestioningly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so Tonks914 had, perhaps jokingly, mentioned wanting a prequel about James and Teddy at Hogwarts, specifically, the sexy-times that are briefly referred to in Disintegration. 
> 
> Though it was not specifically written as a prequel to "Disintegration", "The Paradox of Time" sort of takes place in the same fan fic universe and might give readers of "Disintegration" some helpful insight into James' relationship with Teddy, especially since we don't get to see Teddy's perspective in "Disintegration".
> 
> It's a short story, and you don't have to read all the stories in the series to understand it. http://archiveofourown.org/works/4341440


	14. Scorpius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The discourse in the comments section is amazing, and I can't wait to read about your gut reactions to this monster of a chapter. Thanks, lovely readers! <3
> 
> As always, love and avocado emojis to my bestie, Colorfulstabwound. Thanks for the beta, inspiration, and encouragement.

**_And run in thickening streams of greed_ **

**_As bit by bit it starts the need_ **

 

 

James’ eyes are shining up at Scorpius, clear and blue and filled with the sort of effortless adoration that Scorpius hadn’t known he needed until he had it, hadn’t known James was capable of until he’d seen it. And now, Scorpius doesn’t want to give it up, even though he really should.

As Scorpius stares down into those lucent eyes, he can’t help but compare them to Albus’, noting how very different the two Potter boys are, in every way. 

Though Albus is the younger of the two, he’s taller. And despite the fact that James is a professional athlete (or _was,_ depending on who you ask), he’s structurally not as broad as his brother. But what Albus has in size, is perhaps minimized by his outwardly gentle, eager-to-please personality. And any discrepancy in breadth and height, James makes up for with a personality that’s larger-than-life.

Then, there is the hair – Albus, with his tousled locks like raven’s wings, and James, with his wind-swept waves of warm brown that illuminate with red in the sun. 

And of course the eyes – that startling difference that makes Scorpius almost forget that James and Albus are brothers.

For quite some time, his husband’s emerald green eyes had been telling Scorpius that Albus’ love was wrought with a silent, underlying pain – pain that Scorpius had chosen not to see until he was forced to look at it.

But James’ eyes aren’t like that. James’ blue-grey eyes are easy. James was never a puzzle. Whatever was on the surface was what you got. James had no filters, no hidden messages, no secret emotions.

The way that James is looking at Scorpius right now rather unsettles him. Because even though James is currently smirking amusedly and smugly telling Scorpius how fucking hot he looks riding his dick, James’ eyes are saying he’s in love _._ And Scorpius is both appalled and startled by the effortlessness of that love.

It shouldn’t be so easy to fall in love with the person who refuses to take your shit and calls you out on said shit constantly. It shouldn’t be the natural progression of things to fall in love with somebody who says he hates you while he’s fucking your face with no regard for your comfort. It shouldn’t be okay to fall in love with your brother-in-law, while your own boyfriend is a veritable saint.

Scorpius had never made it easy, and perhaps that had been intentional. If Scorpius makes it difficult for James to like him, then maybe Scorpius can feel less guilty about fucking him.

But James? James is beyond reproach. He’s gazing up at Scorpius right now and he looks bloody _entitled_ to this. And Scorpius wonders if James is even capable of emotions like guilt, or shame, or remorse.

And there’s something so infectious about James’ arrogant entitlement that gives Scorpius license to be free with his affection – to give James more than he should, more than James deserves, more than Scorpius really wants to give. And by that same token, it makes Scorpius feel just as entitled to taking what he wants from James.

Scorpius gives him everything because he has come to crave the easiness of James’ eyes and the kisses that aren’t forced and the unhurried, lazy sex they have when they’re alone for hours in the sheltered bubble of the cottage, where nothing can touch them – where nobody else matters.

 

Scorpius closes his eyes, fists his own cock with languid strokes, and fucks himself on James’ lap, contentedly filled and sweetly stretched. And it feels so different from anything else he’s experienced with Albus, or long ago with Lorcan.

There are very real physical reasons why Albus rarely tops, but Scorpius will never tell James these reasons. He could never be so cruel to Albus as to give James that kind of ammunition against him. But it is hard not to think about those reasons while James is fucking him the way only James can – the way Albus never could – the way _nobody_ ever could – like Scorpius is an undiscovered paradise of Eden proportions and James has slayed hundreds to plunder what is rightfully his by conquest.

James angles his hips upward and it makes Scorpius see stars behind his closed eyes when he comes down slow on James’ cock. Scorpius swears quietly and savors that delicious pressure on his prostate as he quickens the rhythm of his self-manipulation. It’s bloody heaven, and Scorpius could be swindled into believing that he deserves James’ love as much as he deserves this pleasure.

Scorpius’ release splatters James’ chest in thick, pearly ribbons. He smiles lazily, gazes down with hooded eyes, and admires the mess he’s made of James. “You look…,” Scorpius begins breathily, and stops himself from paying James a compliment and further encouraging him. James doesn’t need his already-huge ego inflated.

James manages to quirk a questioning brow while also slowly thrusting up into Scorpius, holding him by the hips to get the perfect angle. “I look _what_? I look so fucking hot with your come all over me?” He flashes a smug grin and delivers another deft thrust, making Scorpius’ breath hitch as he rides on those aftershocks of his own orgasm.

“You look like a hot mess,” Scorpius breathes out, even though James got it right on the first guess.

James giggles. “Shut the fuck up. It’s all your fault.”

James’ laugh is as easy as the love in his eyes and it seduces fond laughter out of Scorpius, despite himself. It shouldn’t be this much fun to cheat on his husband. It shouldn’t be this light and playful. It should hurt and it should be ugly and shameful.

Scorpius dismounts slowly and carefully. James isn’t done and he’s still rock hard, and really remarkably huge (though Scorpius will never tell him so). He collapses on the bed beside James with a satisfied sigh and says with casual finality, “Cheers, that was quite good.”

“You aren’t seriously going to leave me hanging, are you?” James asks, affronted, “With your spunk all over me and everything?”

Just to be difficult, because James always is, Scorpius says dismissively, “You can take care of yourself. You don’t need me.”

“What are you on about?” James shifts on the bed and snuggles up against Scorpius, disregarding the mess that’s smearing between them. He whispers hotly against the side of Scorpius’ neck, “I always need you.”

Scorpius melts, but chases away that fluttery feeling of love in his chest with a dose of reality.

Just because James’ eyes don’t lie doesn’t mean the same goes for his mouth. And Scorpius can’t quite tell if James means it, or if he’s just plying him for a hand-job. 

Scorpius scoffs, “You don’t need me to make you come. You’re capable of doing it yourself.”

It’s déjà vu. Right down to the part where James admits that he _wants_ Scorpius to do it. But this time, James’ voice is seductive and he’s not playing for Scorpius’ pity.

“But it’s so fucking _good_ when you do it, baby,” James drawls, in that liquid gold whisper of his that makes it so hard for Scorpius to resist, “I want _you_ to make me come.”

And just like that first time that Scorpius gave in, he’s riding high on the feeling of being wanted – of being desired – of being _important_ to somebody. He’s filling that hole in his heart that Albus had gouged out, but James doesn’t quite fit.

Despite that, Scorpius rolls onto his back and lets James fit himself between his folded legs. And while James fucks him hot and deep and slow, Scorpius recognizes something in James’ eyes. Scorpius can see that James doesn’t just want this. James _needs_ this. James _loves_ this. So even though his love is ill-fitting and entirely wrong, Scorpius accepts it. Scorpius is now coming to understand that he can be just as selfish as Albus, just as selfish as James, and perhaps more greedy than both of them – because Scorpius wants them _both_.

  

And it’s so bloody _good_ – these days spent wrapped up in domestic bliss, healing together, and cooking meals together and sharing what they make together, and laughing together, and sleeping together, and washing away the pain in the bathtub together.

Scorpius happily gives James what he needs to rehabilitate his body, and it makes him feel accomplished to watch James grow stronger and more independent every day. It gives Scorpius a purpose. Scorpius can see that James has made more progress than ever before, and he knows it’s all because of him. And he feels less guilty about this relationship because he knows it is putting James back together even while it is silently destroying everything else around it. 

So James gets himself back. And Scorpius sort of gets a husband back. Because if you cut away all the deceit and the lies and the damage that goes along with maintaining this relationship, on the outside, it looks like a perfect partnership. It looks like what love and marriage should be.

Except it’s a lie in and of itself. Scorpius soon realizes this.

James can fuck Scorpius and want him, and need him, and perhaps love him in ways that Albus never could, but James Sirius Potter will never cease to be a vindictive, hurtful arsehole.

The fact that James continually feels the need to talk shit about Albus, even while he’s fucking his husband, reveals a truth that Scorpius had been overlooking. It becomes brutally apparent that ruining his brother’s life is the core objective of the game that James has been playing.

  

~//~

 

There comes a point where Scorpius remembers that he still loves his husband – he loves Albus enough to shut James down when all he wants to do is bask in the glory of stealing his brother’s husband. It is still with Albus where Scorpius’ loyalty and love remain, and Scorpius has never been one to allow James to disparage Albus.

This had always been the case, ever since the day Scorpius and Albus met on that first ride on the Hogwarts Express, and James had derided Scorpius for choosing such a _skinny git_ for a friend. Scorpius had told James that he’d rather be friends with a skinny git than _a prat like you._ And maybe, those words stuck.

 

“I know Albus doesn’t fuck you the way I do,” James says one day while Scorpius is riding his cock on the living room sofa, “He doesn’t make you feel this good. He doesn’t give it to you the way you like it.”

“Shut the fuck up, James. Don’t ruin it.” Scorpius could just punch James in his smug face, but he’s too preoccupied as he speeds towards orgasm.

“I don’t think anyone in the world would choose Al over me. I’m James Fucking Potter, damn it.”

This isn’t about Scorpius and James. This is about James. This is _all_ about James. It has never been anything else but James’ show.

Scorpius isn’t special at all. He’s a convenient means to an end, and that end has always been to destroy Albus and satisfy James – Scorpius’ own sense of satisfaction in retaliating against his husband had always been incidental.

Just like Scorpius’ enjoyment had always been incidental.

James’ words are hurtful enough that it nearly prevents Scorpius from coming, but he’s already on the verge of release when James runs his mouth. And despite himself, James makes him come hard, and Scorpius hates him for it.

He’s so flustered and upset that he barely lets James finish inside him before angrily retreating to the bathroom to wash himself clean of the iniquity and the guilt he feels. He feels everything beginning to crash down around him – this façade of blissful cohabitation. Because in the end, Teddy will always come home to James, and Scorpius will always go home to Albus.

And so he does. Scorpius is only slightly sorry about leaving James to fend for himself for the rest of the day when he leaves early without so much as a backwards glance or a parting _fuck you_.

 

When he apparates into his flat, he’s startled to find, not just Albus there, but Harry as well. A surge of panic strikes him speechless. _Oh shit, do they know?_

“Good, you’re home, Scorpius. You should be here for this,” says his father-in-law. And that’s the first indication that maybe this is more about Albus and less about Scorpius.

The second indication, the one that makes Scorpius release the breath he’d been holding, is when Harry starts talking about rehab. Not the sort of rehabilitation that James does to re-learn how to walk. The sort one needs when one is a drug addict.

The revelation blind-sides Scorpius so hard he nearly keels over in his seat on the opposite side of the couch from his husband.

 _Of course_ Albus is an addict. It all makes sense now. Albus has been lying and staying away from home and growing distant and behaving like a cranky, selfish son-of-a-bitch, _not_ because he’s hiding his infidelity, but because he’d been hiding a drug problem. Scorpius had been so horribly wrong and his assumptions had lead to catastrophic consequences. And _that_ is the part that feels like the floor slipping out from beneath him.

 _Oh FUCK, what have I done?_ Scorpius inwardly laments, only vaguely listening to the argument that ensues between Albus and Harry.

Albus denies the allegations. Scorpius has dealt with his alcoholic mother enough to know that an addict always denies they have a problem. And Scorpius knows that Albus is not a stranger to using illicit substances. He’d caught Albus snorting cocaine that time at the album release party. He’s seen his husband strung-out on or hung over from Merlin-knows-what. The more Albus refuses to admit he has a problem, and the more fervently he refuses to get treatment, the more Scorpius takes it as a personal affront. Because Albus isn’t just in denial of his addiction, he’s failing to see the extent of how broken their marriage has become.

Scorpius doesn’t recognize this defensive, wretched creature backing itself into a corner – this isn’t _his_ Albus. Scorpius wonders if the person he loves will ever come back, and he’s beginning to realize that he may be lost forever. He feels abandoned and betrayed by his husband. But he still has a sliver of hope.

“If you love me, you’ll get help.” The words come out of Scorpius’ mouth sounding like a threat, and perhaps it is. Albus really does owe Scorpius this much – to at least try for the sake of salvaging their marriage.

Albus looks absolutely wounded, and Scorpius wishes his words had not pushed his husband even further away.

“Is that an ultimatum, Scor?” Albus asks, affronted.

Scorpius chews on his bottom lip as he debates inside his head whether to stand his ground and stand up for himself, or back down and let Albus ruin himself – both paths could consequently end their relationship. He thinks about what James had been telling him for a while now – how Albus has been treading all over Scorpius since the beginning. He thinks about the secrets and the lies. And he knows he deserves better. Albus doesn’t get to play the victim here.

“Yes. I’m tired of your shit,” Scorpius says firmly.

As expected, Albus retreats. He locks himself in the bathroom, like a miserable, wounded creature scurrying off to hide in a dark hole.

Harry heaves a weary sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s got a migraine. “Give him time. I think he’ll--,” he begins, but Scorpius cuts him off.

“I’ve given him time, Harry,” he snaps, frustrated, “I’ve given him ages. He’s been lying to me for a while now, and he’s not going to come around. Not even for me.”

“He needs you,” Harry says firmly, boring into him with emerald eyes that look just like Albus’. 

Their eyes are so similar that Scorpius can’t stand to meet his accusatory glare with so much guilt weighing heavily on his soul. He’s afraid of what Harry would see if he were able to penetrate his cold façade and see the secrets he keeps. 

Harry continues calmly but sternly, “When you pledged your life to my son, you promised to stand by him through the best of times and the worst of times. You can’t throw around ultimatums the way you did there. That’s not how marriage works. You don’t give up at the first sign of distress and resign to let the ship sink. Believe me, Scorpius, I know. If I’d done that, Albus wouldn’t even exist.”

Scorpius swallows hard on this bitter pill. He feels so small when Harry talks to him like this – like the wise father that Draco Malfoy should have been. He crosses his arms and frowns, blinking away the tears of a scolded child. “I don’t know what he needs. I don’t know if I can even give him what he needs.”

“He needs you to be on his side,” Harry says, much more gently, as he comes to sit beside Scorpius on the couch.   “I know my son, and I’m fairly certain he’s feeling completely alone right now. And you’re feeling hurt just like me and the rest of his family because, yeah – his addiction hurts everyone he touches. But we can’t give up on him.” 

Scorpius’ tears fall in earnest now. He turns away from his father-in-law and stares off into nothing, feeling pain and guilt roiling around inside, eating him alive.

Harry insists softly, “You’ve got to understand that Albus is not his addiction. Give him a moment to process this, because it’s a lot. And when he’s ready to come out of that bathroom, you’ve got to be there for him – for your best mate – for your husband.”

Scorpius dabs the corner of his eyes with his sleeve and nods silently, still unable to look directly at his father-in-law. Harry doesn’t even know the half of how Scorpius has failed his son. Scorpius wonders how James manages to ever keep a straight face under Harry Potter’s astute gaze.

Harry puts a hand on Scorpius’ shoulder and reassures him, “You know, you’re not alone either. We’re family. We’ll get through this together.”

Scorpius nods again. But he’s not so sure. Albus’ drug problem is one thing. Scorpius’ affair with James is a whole other time bomb, and he doubts that the family could stay intact once that bomb inevitably drops.

 

It’s hours before Albus finally comes out of the refuge that is the bathroom. Scorpius is warming up soup that Molly had made when he hears Albus putter into the kitchen on bare feet. “You should eat something,” he says, not looking up from the pot on the stove. Feeding his husband is the only thing Scorpius knows he can do for him right now.

He feels an arm curl around his waist and Albus’ body pressed close to the back of his. Albus’ wet hair brushes behind Scorpius’ neck, and it conjures a faint memory of them making love in the shower – a memory of devouring Albus’ succulently dripping skin, of combing his fingers sensually through drenched hair the color of a wet night.

He feels the wrinkled skin of Albus’ fingertips dipping beneath his shirt and realizes that his husband had been soaking in the bath for an inordinate amount of time, quite literally drowning in his despair.

When Albus buries his face into the back of Scorpius’ shoulder and breathes him in deeply, Scorpius’ whole body reflexively stiffens with the fear of being discovered – of Albus smelling sex on his husband’s skin with the distinct scent of James’ masculinity marking him. But it’s all in Scorpius’ head – he’d already showered at the cottage.

Still, he finds it difficult to relax. It is as if a stranger is touching him with unsolicited familiarity. It had been so long since he and Albus were this close, and only just hours since James had touched him this way, which is why Scorpius feels so uneasy.

“I _do_ love you, and you _don’t_ deserve my shit,” Albus admits softly.

It’s something. It’s a start. Scorpius’ muscles begin to relax.

But Scorpius can’t seem to get an acrid taste out of his mouth – his bitterness over being lied to and left in the dark.

“And?” Scorpius tries to coax some sort of acknowledgement out of Albus, but nothing comes, and they keep hitting that wall of denial.

Albus’ first instinct, as always, is to retreat. “And… I should probably give you some space.

Scorpius is just about fed up with the fact that Albus has put zero effort into fixing their broken marriage. They argue and Scorpius keeps pushing him, literally and figuratively shoving him bodily, trying to get Albus to admit that he’s given up on them, but Albus won’t admit anything. They threaten to leave one another, but neither of them has the conviction to follow through.

“I’m so bloody tired of this, Albie. I don’t know you anymore,” Scorpius says, exasperated through his tears. He’s staring into Albus’ green eyes and they look so foreign to him now. “I don’t know where you are half the time. I can’t fix you, and I can’t fix us. Not on my own. Not until you admit that there’s a problem and commit to doing something about it. And I’m not going to stay here and wait for you to come around. I don’t want to be alone here. Because even when you’re here, you’re not really present. And I need you to be fully present… Does that make sense?”

Albus nods. He still looks so defeated. “It does, I guess… But are you _leaving_ me, leaving me?”

A part of Scorpius _does_ want to leave – to retreat the way Albus always does – to run away to the safe haven that he knows James can conjure around them. But he remembers what Harry had said and he hesitates. He sighs wearily. “…I don’t know.”

Albus whimpers like a hurt child and it breaks Scorpius’ heart into a million little pieces. “I love you. I’m here. I’m here, okay? We’re going to deal with this. Together. Please don’t go. Please.”

Scorpius has never enjoyed watching Albus suffer. “I love you too, Albie. I’m not going anywhere,” Scorpius says, more resigned than supportive.

When they embrace, it feels like they’re desperately clinging to scraps, hanging on by threads. But it is all they have and Scorpius knows it is all they can do right now to keep their ship afloat. Perhaps it is this sense of hopeless desperation that escalates their tearful embrace to a kiss. 

It’s been a while. The taste of Albus’ mouth is a sweet memory of boyhood. He tastes the same way he did when Scorpius first kissed him when they were kids, but the brine of teenage sweat on Albus’ lips has now given way to the saltiness of their tears. Still, it is enough of a reminder of what they used to be – two impossible, inseparable boys who loved one another with wild ferocity – two symbiotic souls who could not survive apart.

Maybe that’s why they’re each so broken.

Scorpius is desperate to get back to that time and place – to be those ridiculous kids in love. And he knows that it is his transgressions more than Albus’ that have made that near impossible. Still, he tries. He tries to drown out the sensual, arrogant drawl of James voice in his head by pulling sounds of lustful acquiescence from Albus’ lips as his tongue reacquaints itself with all of the parts of his husband that he’d missed. He tries to burn the traces of James’ deft fingers from his skin by pressing himself against Albus’ naked body when he hoists him onto the kitchen table and divests him of his boxer briefs.

When he splays Albus over the glass, he’s all deathly pale skin, and limbs that feel slightly too skeletal – his addiction has drained so much from his body. But his lips are deliciously pink and kiss-ravaged, and that ruddy color is mirrored high on his dewy cheeks, and his brow is glistening with sweat, and it’s so gorgeously _Albie_ – like he’s never stopped being that horny fifteen-year-old kid who couldn’t get enough of Scorpius.

And Scorpius begins to think that Harry was wrong about his son – Maybe Albus _is_ his addiction. Perhaps he has _always_ been this way. But it had once been Scorpius to which Albus was physically dependent upon, whereas now Scorpius must compete for Albus’ desire with a chemical dependency.

 _This_ is how Albus needs him – caressing Albus’ thighs worshipfully with splayed fingers, whispering lovingly behind Albus’ ear, _I love you so fucking much_ _Albie_ , kissing away Albus’ frown with lips that have never loved anyone else, reminding Albus with the needy clasp of hands pinned to the glass table that he belongs to Scorpius.

Scorpius wants to make Albus need this so much that he doesn’t need the drugs – doesn’t need anything or anyone else as much as he needs Scorpius. He wants to get Albus so high off the taste of his kiss and the hot thrum of his cock pulsing deep inside him – so high that a cocaine buzz doesn’t compare.

When they fuck, it’s anxious and over-wrought. Scorpius is trying so damn hard to make things right. But he gets the sense from his husband that he, alone, isn’t enough to satisfy Albus.   That notion drives him to push harder, to go deeper, even as the distance between them grows with each ineffectual thrust.

And it’s all just _wrong_. This isn’t them. This is two people fucking who don’t know each other, but with none of the thrill of anonymous sex. He’s burying his cock to the hilt inside the memory of Albus, trying to fuck him back into the present time and place.

It shouldn’t be so bloody hard. Love should come easily.

 

The way James is easy.

 

~//~

 

Scorpius has been coming through the floo at the cottage much later these days, purposely missing the changing of the guards, so to speak, to avoid Teddy. Watching James kissing his boyfriend goodbye in the morning was nauseating enough before Scorpius started sleeping with him. Now, it makes his skin crawl with guilt and bitterness.

How James manages to be so bloody _normal_ around Teddy bothers Scorpius greatly – how he wears deception so effortlessly and pulls off the lie without so much as an awkward hug before Teddy leaves for work. Scorpius sure as hell can’t look at Teddy’s gentle grin and tender, lavender eyes without feeling like a horrible person.

He remembers when he first started working as James’ aide, Teddy had joked that he trusted Scorpius not to kill James, but wouldn’t blame Scorpius if he did. Scorpius knows that Teddy trusts that he will not only have the self-restraint to not murder the pain-in-the-arse that is his boyfriend, but to help him in compromising situations. And it probably never crossed Teddy’s mind to second-guess the prudence of leaving his very attractive, oft-partially-clad boyfriend alone with a gay super model.

Whoever coined the phrase _easy as sin_ really wasn’t kidding. This kind of sinning is so easy that it’s almost criminal, and they’re getting away with it like it’s murder. But Scorpius does not find any pride or joy in that.

  

This morning, Teddy is late for work when Scorpius arrives. Scorpius quickly averts his eyes when Teddy drops a loud smooch on James’ puckered lips and says he loves him. When James tells Teddy that he loves him too, Scorpius wonders if he means it. He couldn’t _possibly_ mean it. Not when, just yesterday, James was balls-deep inside another man.

Not that it matters.

After Teddy is good and gone, Scorpius slowly trudges up to James in the kitchen.

“Come here, you,” James drawls, making devilish sex-eyes at Scorpius, “You’re not still sore with me, are you?” He reaches for Scorpius and pulls him down to straddle his lap on the wheelchair.

Scorpius goes down easily despite himself. James presses a kiss to the corner of Scorpius’ frown. Scorpius is just astounded by James’ gall and does not reciprocate the kiss.

“What the fuck?” James scoffs.

“You just kissed your boyfriend with that mouth, James,” Scorpius mutters.

“So what?” James replies flippantly, “You suck my brother’s tiny prick with _that_ mouth, and I still find a way to kiss it.”

Scorpius lifts off James’ lap with an affronted huff and makes a concerted effort not to backhand him across the face. He brushes the matter aside for a more pressing one. “Did you know your dad was over yesterday? To see Albie?”

“Yeah. Would’ve loved a front row ticket to see _that_ shit show.” James smirks, much too pleased at the thought of Albus’ anguish. “It was mum’s idea, the whole intervention thing. She brought it up at her birthday dinner the other night when Al failed to show.”

Scorpius reflexively comes to Albus’ defense. “Hell, I didn’t even know about the dinner. To be honest, I don’t think anybody tried very hard to get him to go. And I know you Potters can be a conniving lot. I mean, your parents plan an intervention and nobody even tells me about it? What the fuck is _that_ about? I’m his bloody _husband_.”

“Technically, I guess,” James shrugs dismissively. “And as his,” James pauses to make air quotation marks, “ _doting husband_ , you should’ve been the first person to figure out that Al has a problem without my dad telling you. So, I’ve no idea why you’re sore about being left out of the loop.”

Scorpius grumbles defensively, not very audibly, “Well, it looked like something else entirely from my standpoint.” Then he says gravely, “But now that I know what it’s really about, why Albie has been behaving this way, I can’t keep coming here.”

James clicks his teeth and rolls his eyes. “So _now_ you’re quitting. I was really starting to enjoy your…,” he pauses to flash Scorpius a lascivious smirk, “enthusiastic commitment to my care.”

Flustered, Scorpius growls, “Gods, would you stop thinking with your dick and just be serious for a second?”

Flatly, James interjects, “I’m always Sirius. Sirius is my middle name, in fact.”

“Fuck, just stop it!” Scorpius throws his arms up and snarls. “Look, I have my reasons for what I did with you, and most of it was pinned to the fact that I thought Albus was being less than faithful. Eye for an eye sort of thing. And now that I know it was drugs, not boys, that he couldn’t keep his hands off of, I have to contend with the fact that I was wrong and ruined everything because I was a selfish, vindictive, piece of shit.” He lifts his eyes to the ceiling to keep himself from crying – he’ll be _damned_ before he cries in front of James. His voice cracks with anguish as he says, “I can’t do this anymore. It was wrong, it was stupid, and I don’t want to see you anymore.”

James pushes himself up into a standing position so he can meet Scorpius eye to eye and speaks through gritted teeth. “That’s bullshit logic, and you know it.” James pulls Scorpius against him firmly, grabs a handful of Scorpius’ arse, and drawls with his lips close to Scorpius ear, “We fuck because you _want_ it. We fuck because it feels _good_. Because _I_ make you feel good and Albus isn’t doing it for you - isn’t doing _anything_ for you, really. It ceased to be about revenge a long time ago.”

Scorpius stiffens, cold to James’ touch. He is surprised by how well James moves – how he stands on his own and navigates Scorpius’ body without using him as a crutch. He wonders if James is even more capable than he leads Scorpius to believe, and thinks that maybe that was entirely a ploy to keep Scorpius here all these months.

“Get the fuck off me,” he spits, and pushes James back into his wheelchair.

James just chuckles darkly, lounging casually in his wheelchair, watching Scorpius loftily. “You want to talk about selfish? There is no better example than Albus.”

“You’re one to talk,” Scorpius scoffs.

A self-satisfied smirk spreads across James’ face. “You know I’m right. You know Albus does whatever the fuck he wants, when he wants, while treading on the backs of you and all the other people who hold him up like he’s a bloody saint.”

Scorpius huffs, astounded by James’ level of self-centeredness. “Maybe you don’t give a shit about what you’re doing to him, but stop for a second to remove yourself from the situation and have a good, hard look at what I’ve been doing to Albie.” Scorpius annunciates each word firmly and feels the gravity of each deplorable syllable, “I fucked… my husband’s… _brother_. The entire time, Albie was sick – going down a dark path completely alone. Albie needed me. And what was I doing? I was here with _your_ selfish arse.” Scorpius vaguely looks around the room and raises his hands in exasperation. “And what the fuck am I even still doing here? You don’t even need my help,” he says with disgust.

He whirls around to storm off, but James catches his wrist and holds it firmly without hurting him and glares warningly, “Open your eyes, Malfoy. You’re not as dumb as you look, and I know you can figure it out.”

Scorpius shakes his head. “There’s nothing left to figure out. Stop trying to flip things around and make Albie the bad guy in this scenario.”

“I’m not making him anything. He _is_ the bad guy in this scenario,” James insists, “Albus isn’t innocent. He’s never been.”

“What, and you think you’re better?” Scorpius objects venomously, pulling his wrist out of James’ grasp, “You think you’re the good guy in this scenario? Fucking a married man? Cheating on your boyfriend? Ruining your brother’s life?”

James isn’t even being self-righteous when he says, “Honestly, I think I am. Yeah. And that’s really saying something about the awful things Al’s been doing to you, because I know I’m not exactly an angel either.”

Scorpius stops bickering and attempts to explain things to James calmly, hoping he’ll understand, but he knows he’s probably just wasting his breath. He’s parroting Harry’s words because he needs to believe them himself. “It’s not fair to look at this like Albie is willingly, purposefully doing something against me. He’s not taking drugs to hurt me. He’s hurting himself. He’s hurting my marriage, yeah. But it’s not fair of me, or anyone else, to put him entirely at fault because he literally can’t help it. He’s not himself right now. He’s got a drug problem, but Albie is not his addiction.”

James mutters, “Damn fucking right, Al is not his _addiction_. He’s _a dick_.”

Scorpius scowls at James. “You’re just saying this because you can’t fucking stand that somebody would choose your little brother over you. You can’t bear to see your brother happy. So you have to ruin his bloody life and ruin me in the process.”

“I just _can’t_ with you anymore,” James sighs and buries his face in his hands wearily, looking positively _done._ When he looks up at Scorpius again, gone are the arrogance and the smugness. He begins gently, as gently as James could ever be, which isn’t very, “Scorpius, I didn’t want to tell you this. I wanted to let you find out on your own – I wanted Al to be the one to tell you and bear the brunt of your wrath. And it’s not fucking fair that he doesn’t get to look you in the eye the moment you find out what he’s really been doing to you.” 

Scorpius swallows hard. He can tell that James is quite serious now. “What are you saying?”

James takes a long pause to heave a cleansing sigh and then explains, “That day you stole his phone. You gave it to me to try to figure out his passcode. I lied, and I’m not sorry that I lied. But... I got in.”

There is a heavy moment when Scorpius feels the need to sit down – feels the world start to spin out of control again. He takes a seat at the kitchen table and folds his fidgeting hands upon the wooden surface, unsure if he’s ready to know what James found.

Finally, Scorpius asks, “And?”

“And I read his text messages.” James actually seems sincere and maybe even sympathetic when he continues, “He’s not the victim here. You are. And you deserve better. That’s all I’m going to say. I’m not going to make it easier for Al by telling you more – He doesn’t get off the hook for this one. Sorry, not sorry.”

Scorpius thinks he knows what James found. A painfully cold feeling rushes through his body, like all of the blood has left his veins. He wants to believe that James is playing him for his own selfish ends. He has been giving Albus the benefit of the doubt for so long that he can’t bring himself to believe that Albus could willingly hurt him.

He abruptly pushes away from the kitchen table, scraping the chair loudly across the floor as he hastily retreats. “You’re a liar, James Potter,” Scorpius declares, his voice unsure and hoarse from impending tears. He rushes towards the floo.

In his wake, James says, “You’re in denial, Blondie.” Just before Scorpius passes through, James shouts out, “Jar Hands is his password. Have fun with that.”

 

~//~

  

Albus sleeps like a bear in hibernation. Scorpius has known this about him since the first time Scorpius crept into bed with Albus their first year at Hogwarts. Scorpius couldn’t sleep those first few weeks – away from home, in a bed that wasn’t really his, away from the comforting sounds of the wind whistling through the trees at Malfoy Manor, or the sedative hum of the London streets outside Mum’s townhouse.

Scorpius remembers the solitude of being the only boy awake in the dorms in the middle of the night. He remembers the boredom and loneliness driving him to creep into Albus’ bed to listen to him murmur nonsensically in his sleep, to watch his long, dark lashes fluttering over his pink cheeks in the dim wand-light, to whisper secrets to his friend that he couldn’t tell him when they were awake.

_I worry that father and Uncle Theo will get so used to me not being home, they won’t miss me…_

_Mum drinks too much when I’m not home. I think her boyfriend hits her. I wonder if she’ll be alright without me…_

_Grandfather creeps me out. I wish he’d just die already…_

_A Gryffindor arsehole shoved me in the corridor and called me a cock-loving ponce today. But I’m not. I’m not like my father. Everyone always says… But, I’m not my father…_

 

When the loneliness and the worry had become so crushing, and the sleeplessness had become too exhausting, Scorpius hazarded to lie next to Albus. He knew, from watching Albus sleep, and from trying to get Albus out of bed for classes in the mornings, that Albus slept like the dead and wouldn’t wake up for anything. And he was right. That first time Scorpius had stretched out on his side along the length of Albus’ bed, on top of the bedcovers, Albus didn’t wake up.

_You’re different, Albie. You’re special. I hope you never grow weary of me. I hope we’ll be friends forever._

 

And then one night, Scorpius went out on a limb and actually got under the covers with Albus.

This time, Albus stirred. Maybe he wasn’t fully asleep yet.

“I can’t sleep,” Scorpius explained sheepishly when Albus turned over and gave him a sleepy, confused look. He wasn’t startled by the fact that a boy was in his bed, and somehow, Scorpius knew that Albus wouldn’t be.

“No worries, Scor. I got you, mate,” Albus said, and inched closer to Scorpius so that they were shoulder to shoulder on their backs, with their fingers mingling lazily together on the mattress. They never looked back since. It had taken Scorpius years to understand that he was gay and that he was in love with his best friend, but in the interim, he innocently spent many nights in Albus’ bed to fondly watch him sleep. 

 

It’s still quite early in the morning when Scorpius returns to their flat. Albus rarely gets up before noon if he doesn’t have to. And this morning is no different. He’s still in bed, cheek pressed against the pillow, snoring quietly, exactly the way Scorpius had left him.

Scorpius silently crouches at the side of the bed to look at his husband – to watch him in his sleep like he did when they were children. It has been a long time since Scorpius had gazed intently upon Albus’ slumbering form. But unlike the way he had done it at school, Scorpius is doing it surreptitiously.

Albus’ face is a bit squished, his lips slightly parted, his too-long fringe draping over his eyes. He looks quite silly if Scorpius is honest.

“Look at you. You couldn’t hurt a fly even if you tried,” Scorpius muses with a smile, whispering. He brushes aside his dark hair with a finger and watches his eyes fluttering rapidly behind his lids. “I need to know what you’re hiding, Albie… Forgive me…”

Albus continues to slumber, unaware of the fact that Scorpius has just taken his mobile phone from the nightstand.

It is outside, sitting on a park bench, where Scorpius takes the phone out of his coat pocket. If what he finds is devastating, he doesn’t want to go to pieces. And he knows that if he’s out in public, he will be inclined to keep up his cold, unaffected façade.

His fingers tremble slightly when he begins to enter the passcode, fumbling it in his nervousness and anxiousness. On the third try, he gets it right.

_J-A-R-H-A-N-D-S_

He’s beyond the point of being curious about where that password came from and how James figured it out.

The unlocked touchscreen in his palm glares up at him with an ominous glow. The cascade of unread text message alerts fan out like Tarot cards to be plucked from a deck that decides their fate. He taps on the first message preview, _You’re ignoring me again,_ which brings up a long conversation thread between Albus and somebody with the initials _HR_. He scrolls back in the thread, not looking at the words, and stops at a random point in the conversation history.

 

_Are you home yet?_

_I sent you something. A peace offering._

_I regret that you were upset when you left Berlin._

_Answer me. I’m trying._

_I’m being strong for you, my love._

Scorpius feels his stomach begin to clench knowing that somebody else feels they have the right to call Albus, _my love_. He feels sickened and doesn’t know if he can go on reading, but curiosity drives him on.

_Don’t shut me out. I’m the only one who understands you._  

It feels like a personal affront against him. This person might as well be saying, _your husband doesn’t understand you_. And they’re right. Scorpius doesn’t understand Albus anymore, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to. It doesn’t mean that he’s not trying.

 

_Where are you?_

_I don’t like it when you ignore me._

_You want to play? OK have it your way._

_Sir is not pleased with his boy._

_Albus, you need me. Answer your fucking phone._

 

The possessive tone of the messages makes Scorpius feel queasy. Nobody but family should feel they have the right to demand Albus’ attention, or to presume what Albus needs. But then Scorpius wonders if these are messages from a crazy stalker that somehow got Albus’ number. Certainly, this long string of unanswered messages could indicate that. But then Albus enters the conversation, and Scorpius begins to lose faith in his stalker theory.

  

_AS: Sorry, spent the day with my dad. Ring you tomorrow._

_HR: I don’t appreciate you blowing me off like that. I expect a call tomorrow. Good night._

This person could still be a stalker. It is so like Albus to be nice to somebody even when he’s being victimized.

There is a considerable time gap before the next messages, which look like they’d been exchanged last night. And this time, Albus had initiated the conversation, which makes Scorpius think that he wasn’t just being nice.

 

_AS: They tried to make me go to rehab and I said no no no._

_HR: LOL! You can sing, but Amy Winehouse, you are not, my love._

_AS: My dad and Scor think otherwise._

 

The rapport between them is so friendly and so very different from the previous messages. They’re exchanging jokes and they’re doing it at Scorpius’ expense. And there are those words again, _my love_ , which make Scorpius want to smash the glass screen. _He’s not your anything, arsehole_ , Scorpius thinks to himself.

 

_AS: I feel so hurt and betrayed by them._

_HR: I told you. They don’t know you like I know you._

_AS: If they of all people don’t know me, nobody really does._

_HR: I know you better than you know yourself._

_AS: I’m so alone here._

Albus’ words jab themselves deeply into Scorpius’ stomach. He covers his mouth to stifle a sob and blinks back tears. Albus is telling this person things he should’ve shared with Scorpius, and the fact that he felt he could not tell Scorpius, means Albus is so far gone from him that the rift may never be repaired.

Scorpius feels sick with guilt – so sick that he nearly drops the phone in his dizzy haze. He should’ve been there for Albus. He’d been begging Albus to be present for _him_ but Scorpius wasn’t present when Albus needed him. And perhaps it was Scorpius himself, not Albus’ selfishness, that had driven him into the arms of another.

 

_HR: Come back to me. You’re better when you’re with me._

_HR: There is a flight from Heathrow to Berlin Tegel tomorrow afternoon. I want you on it._

_HR: I’m here for you. I will always be here for you._

_AS: You hurt me._

_HR: I love you._

_AS: YOU HURT ME._

_HR: I was scared._

_AS: I AM COMPLETELY ALONE._

Despite his initial reasons for being outside in public, Scorpius falls apart and openly sobs. He doesn’t give a damn about the staring strangers.  

Albus shouldn’t feel alone and he shouldn’t have allowed himself to be hurt by this other person. Scorpius should’ve been there to protect Albus from himself and from the people who would take advantage of him while he was hurting. And somehow, Scorpius just _knows_ that this HR person doesn’t really love Albus – that he’s manipulating him.

Scorpius continues to read the message thread and becomes increasingly panicked and protective of Albus as he scrolls on. There is something very wrong about HR, something dangerous, something predatory, and it frightens him.

 

_HR: You’re not alone. I am a part of you now. I always will be._

_AS: Sometimes I feel like I want to disappear._

_HR: I can make that happen for you._

_AS: I don’t doubt that. You scare me._

_HR: Stop being so fucking weak. You’re twisting my words._

_HR: You don’t have to be anything when you’re with me._

_HR: You could disappear. I’ll take care of you._

_AS: I can’t._

_HR: You can do anything. Be strong for me._

_AS: I can’t._

_AS: Scor just got home. Bye._

_HR: He doesn’t love you like I love you._

_HR: I’m going to ring you._

_HR: You don’t have to talk, just listen._

_HR: You need me._

_HR: Pick up your fucking phone._

_HR: You’re ignoring me again._

Scorpius shoves the phone into his coat pocket after he gets to the most recent message. He wipes his tears on his sleeve and quickly heads down one of the busy streets of London, not quite running, but in a rush to get nowhere – to get away from the truth he’s just discovered – to escape from the unbearable guilt – to trample over the anger he feels towards this stranger who took advantage of Albus, who presumed he had the right to love him – to crush the sickness he feels knowing somebody else has been with his husband, maybe touching his husband, maybe even fucking his husband.

He’s lightheaded from the way he’s panting as he’s rushing down the sidewalk, weaving through the crowds, getting lost in the fray. He nearly walks into traffic, but the car horns snap him out of his fog. As he waits for the traffic light to change, he stops to think where he’s going – he is too emotionally exhausted to keep running.

He crosses the street and ducks into an alley. He tries, with much difficulty, to clear his head enough to picture an address. He’s lucky he doesn’t splinch himself when he apparates directly into his mother’s townhouse. 

Astoria had been living in London since her divorce from Draco, long enough that Scorpius could consider it a second childhood home. Though he wasn’t particularly close to his mother, certainly not as close as he was to his uncle Theo (his father’s partner), Scorpius knew that she was the right person to talk to.

He needed somebody who would not sympathize with him blindly, who would not take his side unquestioningly. He knew that his father harbored too much distaste for Albus to be objective. He needed to talk to somebody who could understand, not just his perspective, but Albus’ perspective as well, and his mother happened to be in the unique position to do just that.

With the swish of her wand, Astoria sends two crystal tumblers floating from the liquor cabinet and lets them clink down safely upon the marble coffee table. Another gesture of her wand brings over a bottle of Bombay Sapphire to the seating area where she and her son are perched upon the white, leather sofa.

“Normally, I’d decline to share a drink with you and implore you to choose something non-alcoholic for yourself, but…,” Scorpius begins.

His mother finishes the sentence for him with a sage nod, “But you’re not here on a social call and you could use something to smooth out the rough edges.”

“Yeah. Not too much, though, Mum. I need us coherent,” says Scorpius, helping himself to the blue bottle.

“You don’t have to tell me twice, darling,” she says, holding out her glass for Scorpius to fill, “I’m well versed in moderation these days.”

Scorpius gives her a doubtful, sidelong look and pours out barely one swig’s worth of gin.

“Just a smidge more for Mummy,” she encourages him, “I’ve a feeling I’m not going to like what you have to tell me.”

“You’ll just have to swallow this bitter pill without a chaser,” he says, returning the bottle to its home in the cabinet before his mother can be tempted. 

Scorpius drinks down the contents of his glass and immediately regrets that he hadn’t poured himself more. He still feels panic and guilt bubbling beneath the surface. Much to his pleasant surprise, his mother demurely sips from her glass rather than emptying it in one go, as he knew she was quite capable of. 

“You’re trembling, sweetie darling,” she notes, her penciled-in brow furrowing.

She reaches for Scorpius’ hand, but he instinctively flinches away from her touch the way he had as a child. He immediately feels guilty for reacting this way and takes her hand firmly to reassure her – he no longer bears that bitterness he’d once felt towards her for being a less-than-present alcoholic mother when he was little. He understands her a bit more now these days.

“You’re scaring Mummy,” she says, giving Scorpius’ hand a gentle squeeze, “What’s wrong?”

Scorpius proceeds to tell her everything. Every ugly detail of the events that had lead him to this point, unsure of what he is entitled to feel or do or think, afraid of making the situation worse with his actions.

For her part, Astoria remains stoic as she sits quietly and listens to the story of how her precious little boy has grown up to be the sort of horrible person that would emotionally abandon his husband and cheat on him with his brother-in-law.

But when he is finished confessing his crimes to her, and done revealing Albus’ transgressions, she does not sympathize. She behaves exactly the way Scorpius had expected and had hoped she would. Because Scorpius does not deserve to be coddled and told that he’d been justified in his actions. She looks positively livid and utterly disappointed.

Astoria actually breaks down and cries. The number of times Scorpius had ever seen his mother cry can probably be counted on one hand. She was a pro at only revealing her emotions when it was tactically beneficial. In this case, she had nothing to gain with her tears, which made it all the more heartbreaking to watch them fall in earnest – to know that he had sinned so grievously as to make his mother cry.

She wipes the streams of black mascara from her rouged cheeks with a trembling hand and begins to speak, anguish deepening her normally flippantly shrill voice. “I want to take you by the shoulders and shake you and tell you that I raised you better than this. But I know that I can’t take all the credit. And now I see the consequences of that – of not taking a more active role in your life…” She reaches for Scorpius’ tearstained face and holds it in her manicured hands. “Because I see him in you. You are every bit Draco’s son. From the high cheekbones right down to your foolish, deceitful heart.”

Scorpius pulls out of her bittersweet caress and rises from his seat, shuddering with anger as he laments, “I am _not_ him! I am _not_ my father!” His mother flinches as he shouts, but he doesn’t want this to escalate into a major row. So he lowers his voice and asserts firmly but quietly, “I’m just Scorpius. I’m your son. _Yours_. I need you, Mum, please.” 

His mother gazes up at him, lip trembling, hands wringing together. For a tense moment, Scorpius thinks that she’s going to send him away. But then she resigns to open her arms to him as she sniffles. “Mummy’s here, darling. Mummy’s here. You’re right. You’re not Draco. You’re better than that.” 

Scorpius crumbles into her embrace, burying his face into her shoulder like he’s a little boy, and whines miserably, “Help me, Mum, please… please… I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to fix Albus.”

His mother brushes back his fringe, wet with tears, and says gently, “You can’t fix Albus. Only Albus can fix Albus. He needs to get clean first, before anything.”

“I don’t even know if he really has a drug problem. He’s hurting in so many ways,” Scorpius mumbles weakly, pouting deeply.

“Oh, he’s an addict alright,” she says, completely sure of herself, “All these years, in and out of alcohol dependency – I know a fellow substance abuser when I see one. From what you’ve told me, your instincts are right – Albus is showing all the classic signs. And maybe it’s his drug problem that let him fall into the arms of another man, or maybe it was the emotional strain of the affair that made him use more than casually. Either way, he needs professional help.”

“He doesn’t believe he has a problem. He’s stubborn. He won’t go to rehab,” says Scorpius, lifting his head off his mother’s shoulder, sighing as his own shoulders sag.

“He has to hit rock bottom before he can climb out, darling” she says, gently holding Scorpius’ chin.

Scorpius shakes his head out of her fingers in fervent disagreement. “No. What if he never gets to climb out? What if he ends up being another rock star cliché that dies of an overdose?”

“He needs a safety net. He needs to fall in a way that he can still bounce back after he hits the bottom,” she says, spoken like somebody who has been there.

“How can I be his safety net if he won’t even bloody let me in?” Scorpius asks, hopeless.

“You told me yourself, he’s got someone else,” she says, rather callously, which is nothing new for his mother.

Scorpius bristles with jealousy, but he knows she’s right. Albus has confided in this other person before, and he’ll probably do it again. But he doesn’t have to like it.

“There’s something entirely not right about this other person, though,” Scorpius speculates, “I can tell from the things he says to Albie.”

“Like I said,” she says coldly, scooping her glass off the table and gazing down at the dregs of gin, “Rock bottom.”

 

Scorpius thinks about his mother’s boyfriend. He had once done time in Azkaban for crimes he’d committed as a young Death Eater – not exactly the sort of person one would choose first as a safety net. He was possessive and abusive. But he was there for his mother after his father had left her for a man, and he stuck by her side while she struggled through her worst years of alcoholism. 

 

After a long, comfortable silence, Scorpius asks, “Who was your safety net?”

Astoria cracks a small, fond smile as she continues to stare into her glass, letting the contents swirl around absently. “You,” she admits quietly, “It had always been you… Until your father poisoned you with his venom. Made you believe I was drinking to excess because I didn’t love you – didn’t care enough to be a mother.”

Scorpius rests a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “I know that’s not true. I know you love me.”

She rests her hand on his, and it looks so tiny in comparison. She flashes him a small, teary smile. “I know that you know.”

Another long stretch of much needed peace and quiet ensue. It has always been okay to just sit with his mother like this – not talking – just being together, still making up for lost time after all these years.

Then Scorpius breaks the silence to ask, “And what about James?”

“What _about_ James?” She allows herself to finish the gin she’d been nursing slowly and seems disappointed to have done so. “Do you care for him?”

Scorpius shrugs. He honestly doesn’t know anymore.

She pierces him with stern eyes the color of his own ice blues. “If you truly aren’t your father, you’ll tell Albus what you’ve done. You won’t let it go on for years, letting it fester. You won’t trap Albus in a marriage based on a lie – based on the illusion of wedded bliss, just for the sake of saying your marriage survived his drug problem. Because then you’re just married to the _idea_ of marriage. You’re not married to _him_.”

“It’ll destroy him if I tell him,” Scorpius whispers sadly.

“Rock bottom… That’s all I’m going to say, darling. Let him go. You are just hurting him by keeping him tethered to you. If he had the strength to leave you, he would have done it already. But since he doesn’t, you have to be the one to do it.”

Scorpius whispers weakly, “But I love him... I can’t…” 

“You love what he _was,_ darling,” she says, stonily yet sagely, “You were too young when you got married. You’ve since grown up. You’re not the same two people who fell in love.” 

It is a sobering conversation. Exactly what Scorpius had needed. Before he steps through the floo, he pauses and asks over his shoulder, “Can I stay with you for a while if I need to?” He frowns when he sees her reaching for the gin again.

“Yes, of course, darling. And you _will_ need to. I’ve no doubt about that,” she says with the kind of cold, detached, cynicism that is so very _Astoria_ , and oddly comforting in its familiarity.

“Thanks Mum,” Scorpius mumbles, “And that’s your last drink for the day.”

“Of course it is, sweetie – I’m just topping off with a smidge. I’ll have Tink tidy up your old room.”

 

Back at his flat, Scorpius finds Albus half-under the bed on his hands and knees.

“Looking for this?” Scorpius says.

Albus gasps, startled, and nearly hits his head when he crawls out from under the bed. “Scor, I thought you went to work? What are you…?” Albus is struck silent mid sentence when he rights himself and realizes what Scorpius is holding.

Scorpius is brandishing the unlocked phone like a DMLE officer flashing his badge at a criminal caught red-handed. Albus’ secret is staring him in the face with that ominous electronic glow.

“Tell me about H.R.”

 


	15. Albus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I last updated, and I'm sorry. This chapter was hell to write, even though I knew exactly what needed to happen. Thanks for sticking with it if you've come this far, or if you're coming back to it after my hiatus.
> 
> As always, thanks to ColorfulStabwound for your friendship, inspiration, and help with this chapter.

~ 15: Albus ~

**_It’s easier for me to get closer to heaven_ **

**_than ever feel whole again_ **

 

 

Albus is startled out of his sleep. He’s uncertain of what had caused him to wake up so abruptly, but his first thought is that it must have been the vibrating mobile device inside the nightstand drawer. He reaches in blindly to retrieve his phone, but it doesn’t appear to be there. He rifles through the drawer properly this time, and when he doesn’t find it there, he pats down the bed, then plunders his jacket pockets, and goes so far as to get on the floor beneath the bed in his fruitless search.

“Looking for this?”

Jolted by the unexpected sound of his husband’s voice, Albus just barely misses hitting his head on the underside of the bed.

“Scor, I thought you went to work?” Albus begins, but quickly loses his thought, “What are you…?”

Scorpius is standing in their bedroom with reddened and puffy eyes, looking like a right mess, wielding Albus’ phone. And not only is he holding Albus’ phone, he’s holding Albus’ _unlocked_ phone. But before Albus can ask Scorpius what’s got him in such a state (or question how he had managed to unlock the phone), the illuminated touch screen catches his attention. He nearly swallows his tongue, choking on his realization.

On the screen, are the distinct word bubbles of text messages. Albus is standing too far to read the messages, but he knows what those messages say just from the look on Scorpius’ face. Albus feels the heaviness of dread pulling his stomach down. It’s the same feeling he used to get deep in his gut whenever he was in trouble as a child, but now the feeling is amplified to a paralyzing horror.

Scorpius demands, firmly but quietly, “Tell me about H.R.”

With those words, everything begins to fall apart around them. Albus feels the walls crumbling, the floor falling out from beneath him, the sky crashing down on him, the suffocating guilt enveloping him like a noxious cloud of poisonous gas. He begins to panic, but somehow keeps from losing his shit just barely enough to cover his arse. He folds his arms across his chest to physically hold himself together, snorts dismissively, and shakes his head.

“Just some arsehole,” Albus lies, unconvincing to his own ears. Lying shouldn’t be so reflexive, especially with Scorpius. “He’s nobody,” he mumbles, fooling no one. 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Albus knows he’s being a dick. He’s disgusted with himself. Scorpius doesn’t deserve this. Scorpius doesn’t deserve to be lied to so flippantly as if he’s stupid. Scorpius, ever the clever and cunning Slytherin, is anything but stupid. Albus had always sensed that Scorpius knew he was hiding something. But Scorpius had never explicitly asked, and so Albus had become complacent. Now that he’s actually being confronted, Albus finds himself at a loss for words – meaningful words, at least.

Scorpius sharply raises a brow with disbelief. “Nobody? Really?” He turns the device towards himself and begins to read the messages with a harsh, accusatory tone, “ _Come back to me. You’re better when you’re with me. There is a flight from Heathrow to Berlin Tegel tomorrow afternoon. I want you on it._ ”

Huldi’s words were chilling enough. To hear them coming out of Scorpius’ mouth makes Albus want to curl up into a ball and stay fetal for a decade. He holds himself tighter, firmly enough to bruise, and lets his eyes fall to the floor in a futile attempt at escaping the burn of Scorpius’ judgmental stare. All Albus can do is shrug his shoulders. What _can_ he say?   He had never thought he would ever have to. He stupidly let himself believe he could be rid of Huldi and forget him like a bad mistake. 

“Really? Really, Albus?” Scorpius asks, more insistently, more strongly indignant at Albus’ denial and cowardice. He scrolls through the messages and picks out another one to read. “ _You’re not alone. I am a part of you now. I always will be._ ” His voice starts to crack. “He’s nobody, Albus?” He sounds like he’s about to cry, if he isn’t already crying, but Albus can’t even face him to confirm. “ _He doesn’t love you like I love you.”_

For a second, Albus thinks that Scorpius is telling him this from his heart. But when Scorpius repeats them, he realizes that they are words that Huldi had used. “ _He doesn’t love you like I love you._ What the fuck, Albus?”

And then Scorpius does start to shudder and sob quietly - Albus can tell from the quiver in Scorpius’ voice and the wet sounds coming from his general direction, but he can’t bare to watch his husband falling apart. Albus doesn’t look until he’s forced to, when his phone comes hurling towards his head, having been flung across the room with the full force of Scorpius’ magic and rage. Albus quickly ducks, barely escaping a face-full of glass and metal. The device sails over the bed to land hard on the floor, likely cracking its screen.

“Who the _fuck_ is he, that he thinks he has the _right_ to say these things to you?” Scorpius demands, tearfully quivering with rage, “To make assumptions about how I love you?”

Albus visibly flinches. The words feel like a hard smack across the face, complete with resultant hot tears stinging Albus’ eyes and streaking down his reddened cheeks.

Weakly, he insists, quietly whining, “He’s nobody. He means nothing to me.”

The irony of this statement isn’t missed. Albus still remembers Huldi telling him, _you’re nobody – you’re nothing_ , and how liberating that had once felt – to be free of expectations. But now, the words are as meaningless and as ineffectual as they are false.

Of course Scorpius can see right through him.

He rushes at Albus and grabs the front of his shirt. And Albus is actually afraid. He’s never seen Scorpius so violently enraged before – not directed at him, at least. And as Scorpius growls at him, Albus can smell a slight tinge of alcohol on his breath. “Who is he? Tell me!” 

“He’s… he’s… he’s an obsessed fan,” Albus stutters feebly. But really, it isn’t so much a lie as it is only part of the truth. He hangs limply by his shirt in Scorpius’ fists, unwilling to fight, taking everything that his husband hurls at him, knowing he deserves every lethal word, every violent reaction.   

“That’s bollocks! You’re lying to me!” Scorpius spits venomously, aggressively shaking Albus by the front of the shirt to punctuate each accusation, “You were with him! When you were supposedly doing rubbish for your stupid band, you were with him! Weren’t you? When you were supposedly finishing your dumb record in LA, you were with him! When you were supposedly visiting your brother before the Brit Awards, you were with him! I _knew_ you were lying and I was such an idiot to believe you’d come clean about it!

Albus can’t deny it. Each truth is plucked from him like old thorns that had been embedded deep in his skin, reopening wounds anew to bleed in earnest. Each wound seeps with shame and oozes with regret, such that Albus feels too weakened by his guilt to respond. He knows he is nothing of the two brave men for which he was named and despises himself for not being strong enough to admit his grievous mistakes. His glassy eyes plead wordlessly with Scorpius as he watches the rage build behind his husband’s own penetrative, ice blue stare with every accusation.

“You deceitful fucking bastard! Tell me!” Then Scorpius releases hold of Albus’ shirt so hard that it’s effectively a shove. Free from Scorpius’ grasp, Albus stumbles backwards and falls to the bed. Better to sit than stand on legs that are too weak at the knees to support him anyway.

Even more defeated, Scorpius crumbles to the floor at Albus’ feet and sobs loudly, his posture wrought with pain, the irises of his weeping eyes contrasting starkly blue against the blood-shot whites. Scorpius implores, slightly less hysterical yet no less racked with tears, “Please, Albie, talk to me. We used to tell each other _everything_ … What happened? Why can’t we talk like we used to?”

Albus wonders the same thing. He wonders how they’d grown so distant in such a short span of time, such that Albus didn’t feel comfortable telling Scorpius anything and everything anymore. He shrugs, grasping aimlessly for a reason, still sniveling, “I don’t know. We’re different now, I guess.” 

“How? How are we different now?” Scorpius asks, gesturing beseechingly with his hands, just as desperate for answers as Albus.

“I can’t explain it,” Albus replies softly, “We just _are_.”

There is a long, painful, silence. In that silence, Albus struggles to formulate explanations that could satisfy his husband, and Scorpius’ initial anger settles to a simmer. Of course, Albus comes up short – he doesn’t want to keep lying to his husband, but at the same time, he can’t bring himself to bare the ugly truth. 

 

Finally, Scorpius stops crying and huffing enough to muse, still seated on the floor, “Remember when I was at school, and you went on tour that first time, and we had that open policy in our relationship? It was always okay to tell each other anything, no matter how much it would hurt. I don’t know why that stopped.”

Albus stares at his hands in his lap and mumbles lamely, “Well… we weren’t married then.”

“It really shouldn’t matter,” Scorpius snaps, still tense with rage bubbling just below the surface, “Married or not, it shouldn’t have changed the way we talk to each other. So, just fucking tell me everything, yeah? Talk to me like the stakes aren’t high.” Then he adds, bitterly, “If you need to forget for a second that we _are_ married so that you can bloody _speak_ to me, then do it.”

Albus flinches again at those last words. They sting, but they should.

He takes a cleansing breath and gazes up at the ceiling, searching for a place to start. He goes back to where it all began – to the very beginning of Them. “I have always asked too much of you.” 

“That’s bullshit. You never…” Scorpius quickly retorts, but just as swiftly reins himself in to allow Albus to explain. “Whatever. Go on.”

“It was a lot, Scor. Asking you to be friends with me and to shoulder all the baggage my name carries when you started Hogwarts – that was a lot to ask of a kid. And then asking you to stay friends with me when I told you I’m gay, while you _knew_ I had a crush on you – making you watch me snog other boys while you waited on the sidelines trying to figure out your own sexuality and your feelings for me – it was _a lot_ to ask of you. When we got together, even _that_ was a lot to ask of you – to be out in the open and take me home to your parents. To drop out of school and run away with me and marry me at eighteen – _fuck,_ Scor, how can you say that’s not too much? And then to make you wait for me for weeks on end while I’m off doing my band thing – It’s _a lot_. It was never fair to you. I’ve always been the selfish one, wanting more than I should rightfully have, while you--”

Scorpius cuts him off sharply, exasperated and breathy, “While I _what_? Don’t pretend that I wasn’t a willing participant in any of this. I wanted it too. All of it. I wanted _you_. Everything you’ve ever asked of me – it was _never_ too much! Damn it, Albie, I would have given you _anything_! Didn’t you know that?”

Albus feels the tears begin to resurface, aching for what they used to have, and destroyed over what he had done. “Even if that’s true, there are some things I could never ask of you - things you could never have given me. Things I never knew I needed until…” Albus hesitates, unsure of how to say it delicately.

But Albus doesn’t have to find the least damaging words to use because Scorpius finishes the sentence for him. “Until H.R. gave it to you.”

Albus bites his bottom lip and slowly nods as the tears spill over once again. He feels like he’s an insect caught beneath the burning scrutiny of the magnifying lens that is Scorpius’ intense glare.

“What does he give you that I can’t?” Scorpius demands.

“I don’t… I don’t know how to explain it to you,” Albus hesitates. The thought of what he had let Huldi do to him makes him feel sick.

Frustrated, Scorpius starts throwing out explanations haphazardly with an accusatory tone as if one might actually stick. “What? Is it about sex? Are you just bored of me? You wanted to spice things up? Fuck, Al – you _know_ me, and I’m down for _anything_ – you could have just bloody _asked_.”

Sheepishly, Albus interrupts, “No, Scorpius, this was something you, being who you are, could never have given me and I would never ask of you. You are _too good_.”

Scorpius scoffs loudly and shakes his head in disbelief. “Too _good_ … Wow, Al, that’s just… wow.”

Frustrated, Albus retorts, “It’s not bullshit, Scor. I’m not trying to kiss your arse to gain back your favor. You are inherently too good of a person to be capable of what he does.”

Scorpius seems to weigh those words for a while and then responds woefully. “You put me up on this pedestal and you think I’m this innocent little snowflake. You think I’m always going to be that sheltered little rich kid you met on the Hogwarts Express who can’t handle the real world.”

Scorpius declares resolutely, rising up from the floor as if physically proving his point, “Well, I’m not your precious snowflake anymore and I haven’t been in a long time. You’re clinging to a person that doesn’t exist and you’re punishing me for not being that person anymore. You refuse to see that I have in fact grown up and am capable of handling your adult bullshit, no matter how dark and ugly it is.”

Scorpius’ voice raises an octave and begins to crack as he starts to cry again. “We’re not those boys anymore, hiding from the rest of the world, snogging in a tent by the black lake. We are adults with adult problems and adult needs. And when my own bloody husband can’t see me as an adult with adult needs, who can handle adult bullshit, what the fuck am I supposed to do? What _can_ I do, but exactly what you did to me, Albus?”

That last question hangs heavily in the air.

“What are you saying, Scor?” Albus asks, breathlessly, as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He wants to believe that he’s just reading into Scorpius’ words too deeply and seeing things that aren’t there.

No such luck. Scorpius wipes his eyes. His expression hardens. He’s the Ice Prince, and it hurts to watch Scorpius turn into that person.

“Tell me about H.R. and I’ll tell you about your brother,” Scorpius says flatly, so cold that Albus can’t believe his husband is actually speaking to _him_.

“James?” Albus asks, perplexed, unable to make the connection because deep in his psyche he doesn’t want to make the connection.

But it inevitably clicks and it feels like being blindsided by a fly-by jinx to the head. It was paradigm-shifting enough to realize that he’d been idealizing Scorpius their whole relationship, but the final revelation is enough to knock Albus off his feet, had he not already been sitting.

That punched-in-the-gut feeling makes him hunch over wretchedly, staring up at Scorpius in betrayal and shock. “ _James_?” he repeats with disgust, “You slept with my brother?”

“So by _your_ conclusion, am _I_ correct in my assumption that you slept with this H.R. person? You fucked him?” Scorpius asks, somehow still frigid and stoic enough to cross-examine Albus.

“Tell me you didn’t,” Albus pleads, still unwilling to believe it, sobbing messily, “Please, Scor. Tell me you’re lying. Tell me you’re just fucking with me to get back at me for what I did.”

Scorpius continues to grill Albus as he looms over him with his accusations. “You let him fuck you, didn’t you? When we used to have an open relationship, you promised me nobody else would have you the way I do. Did you let him do it?”

Albus is aghast, unable to answer the questions, in utter disbelief that Scorpius is still harping on his affair with Huldi after just alluding to the fact that he had slept with James.

When Albus doesn’t respond, Scorpius takes it as a confession and visibly cringes. The cold exterior that Scorpius had tried to put up to shake the truth from Albus shatters. He visibly begins to go to pieces and paces the floor as the blunt reality of it all begins to sink in. “Oh gods, you had another man inside you. Somebody else had his mouth on you. His hands on you. Somebody else had his prick inside you. _Fuck_ , I’m going to be sick.” 

Scorpius pales and stumbles to an armchair, but then flinches when he falls onto Albus’ dirty clothes draped over the seat. He picks up a shirt, crumples it in his hands, and sniffs it. “Oh my gods, did he fuck you last night? Is this what he smells like? Like the sort of classless slag that fucks in dance club washrooms?” He tosses the shirt to the floor with equal measures of disgust and anger.

Under different circumstances, Albus would have retorted with a mirthful snort, _You and I were the sort of classless slags that fuck in dance club washrooms once…_  

But it’s only a fleeting thought at the back of Albus’ mind. Right now, all he can focus on is the James-shaped piece of human waste that he wants to murder.

Albus shoots up from the bed and rounds on Scorpius, gesturing angrily with his hands. “Stop making this about Huldi! You slept with my brother?!”

“Is that his name? Huldi? What a stupid fucking name,” Scorpius spits. Albus knows that Scorpius is just being reactively cruel.

“Does it matter? He means nothing! I don’t give a _fuck_ about Huldi! All I want to know is, did you or did you not sleep with James?”

Scorpius throws his hands up with a sound that’s between a growl and an exasperated sigh. “Gods, have you not been listening to me?! You’re putting everything on me! Everything is my fault, yeah? Saint Potter is blameless.”

“Fuck you. I am not my father,” Albus snaps through gritted teeth. “You, of all people, should know I have never pretended to be my dad and have never tried to be him.”

Scorpius rises to meet Albus’ eyes and takes a confrontational stance. “Well maybe you should have. Maybe you should have tried to be more like him. Harry Potter is a good man who cares about you, who loves you unconditionally, and never expected you to be anything else but who you really are. Merlin only knows how you and Jamie didn’t end up anything like your father.”

Albus stops dead. Nothing gets through to him except Scorpius’ last few words, which somehow resonate more deeply than anything else. Something about those words, the familiarity in the way Scorpius had said _Jamie_ , makes Albus think that Scorpius really does know James more than just an annoying brother-in-law.

“Oh my gods, you did.” Albus whispers, feeling pain so overwhelming that he can barely get the words out of his tightening throat, “You really did. Of all the people in the world, Scor, why James? Why bloody _James_?”

Scorpius must have not only wanted to hurt Albus, but to maim and permanently scar him. And that, more than anything, makes it clear to Albus that Scorpius has long ceased to be his precious snowflake.

“Because he was _THERE_ ,” Scorpius practically snarls in Albus’ face with so much bitterness that Albus can practically taste the acrid words flying from Scorpius’ sharp tongue, and it feels like a knife stuck in his gut. “He was there when _you_ weren’t. He was _present_ in ways you weren’t.   He saw me for who I am, he accepted me, and he treated me like a human being and not like an idealistic fantasy. And yes, Albus, _YES_ \- to answer your all important question, yes, _he fucked me_.”

 

The world goes blurry behind hooded eyelids. Words become muffled tones. All Albus hears is the sound of his own blood coursing like a storm surge through his ears. He doesn’t even realize he’s done it until the uncomfortable, unbearable squeeze of apparition surrounds his body, taking him to the person he wants dead.

He doesn’t notice that he has apparated into the cottage until he’s already there, facing down the person he wants dead. He doesn’t even notice his own mother standing in his way, with a pleasantly surprised grin that quickly becomes a perplexed stare, until his shoulder knocks into hers on his singular pursuit towards the person he wants dead.

Albus doesn’t realize his hands are around his own brother’s throat, or that Scorpius has apparated seconds behind him, until Scorpius is trying to wrench Albus’ fingers from the now-bruised neck of the person he wants dead.

He doesn’t realize that his mother has jinxed him in a desperate attempt at separating him from his brother until he finds himself on the floor. As he slowly sits up, the world starts to come into focus again, and sound begins to arrange into audible words. His mother is holding him firmly by the shoulders, screaming at him, and he is still too stunned (both emotionally and magically) to answer.

Ginny Potter has always been a formidable woman, capable of wrangling her sons when they fought as children, and is still just as capable of handling them as grown men.

“Albus Severus Potter, are you crazy? Are you bloody high?” she asks as Albus stares off into nothingness. “Did you seriously just try to kill your brother?”

Albus feels cold. He feels empty. His face is as hard as that of his beloved Ice Prince. Bitterly, his stony eyes move to focus on his mother’s.

Emotionlessly, he asks, as if she hadn’t just thrown a hex at him, as if he hadn’t just choked his brother, as if his husband hadn’t just admitted to the ultimate betrayal, “The fuck are you doing here, mum?”

“What the fuck am _I_ doing here, Al?” she retorts indignantly. “You just strangled James.”

From somewhere close by, Albus realizes that James is coughing and wheezing. James, being the smart-arse prick that he is, finds enough breath after being strangled to be an arsehole. “Malfoy abandoned his job and left me to fend for myself, so mum had to come.”

“Do you fucking _blame_ me for leaving?” Scorpius scoffs.

The sound of Scorpius’ voice is a startling reminder of his presence. Albus slowly lifts his arm and his gaze to point accusingly at Scorpius. “You…,” he says with quiet rage rumbling deep and low in his throat, “You fucked my brother. I expect that kind of thing from James, but from _you_ … How could you do this to me, Scor? How could you?”

Scorpius slowly backs away. “You cheated on me, Albus. Don’t pin this all on me.”

His mother’s grasp tightens around his shoulders, making him realize that he’s heaving. He’s beginning to hyperventilate. “Al, you need to calm down,” she says firmly but quietly.

“You going to choke him too, Al? Ooh, _this_ , I’ve got see,” James drawls sarcastically with fiendish amusement.

Albus’ eyes shoot towards his brother, but before he can lash out violently, their mother pulls a wand on him. “Calm down. Let’s talk about this.” She turns to admonish her other son, “Shut it, James. You’re not helping.”

Albus glances down at the wand pointing at his chest. “Oh, that’s just lovely mum. Take his side. You’re _always_ taking his side.” He pushes her back by the shoulders and only regrets the action for a split second. He backs away from her, scrambling over the floor, crying again. “You’re _always_ taking his side,” he repeats, voice high and throat tight, “I bet you knew. You knew James screwed my husband.”

His mother lowers her wand and softens for a moment as pity pinches her expression. “Al, honey… I didn’t know. And I never take sides.”

“Well, you should!” Albus snaps, “You’ve never had my back, ever!” 

She reaches out to him and begins to insist, “That’s not true, you know I --”

Albus cuts her off, “Fuck you!” He gestures wildly around the room “Fuck all of you! I don’t need any of you!”

Before anyone can stop him, Albus disapparates.

 

Later, Albus arrives unannounced at Huldi’s flat with a bag slung over his shoulder. Huldi opens the door and neither of them has to say anything. Huldi knows what Albus needs without Albus having to tell him. He lets his bag drop to the floor with a thud and he falls into Huldi’s open arms. He buries his face in Huldi’s chest as Huldi envelops him in an embrace. He smells of the club like he’s just off work. The familiarity of his scent is somehow both comforting and revolting.

“I always knew you’d come back to me, my love,” Huldi whispers, dropping kisses on top of Albus’ head. “I’m going to take care of you. I promise.”

 

Albus has never felt so alone in his life.

 

  

~//~

 

Albus is shivering.

He is colder than he’s ever felt before. Though the numbers on the digital dashboard of Huldi’s BMW say otherwise, he feels more like winter in the Scottish Highlands than sweltering summer in Berlin. And though it feels like icicles are gouging deep ravines along his spine, making him twitch, his back is so damp with sweat that his shirt is sticking to the leather of the passenger seat.

He hazards to hold out a hand in front of his face. “I’m shaking. I can’t stop shaking. Why can’t I stop shaking?”

“It’s called _withdrawal,_ my love,” Huldi replies, staring out the windshield at the night whizzing by in streaks of sodium yellow and neon white.

“Yeah, no _shit_ ,” Albus mutters snappishly. “But I just smoked a spliff and it’s even worse.”

“Weed isn’t going to be enough to chill you out,” Huldi explains, “You need something stronger. Something harder than hydrocodone.”

“Max better have something harder,” Albus says, feeling panic rising in his chest.

“Doubt it,” Huldi mumbles absently.

“Then why the fuck are we going to see Max?” Albus asks, shortly.

“I don’t appreciate that tone you’re taking with me, Albus,” Huldi reprimands, never needing to raise his voice, “You know I’m going to take care of you. Haven’t I always?”

Before Albus can apologize for being cranky in his state of withdrawal, Huldi cuts the steering wheel hard, nearly throwing Albus out of the open window.

“We’re going to see my other guy. Wolfang can hook us up with the hard stuff,” Huldi declares.

 

As the buildings fly by, Albus ceases to recognize them. He realizes that they must be in a sketchy neighborhood when Huldi pushes the buttons to close their windows and lock the doors.

They pull up to a dark, seemingly abandoned industrial area. It is the sort of place that Albus imagines unsolved murders happen. Maybe the drugs are just making him paranoid. Albus has very strong doubts about the prudence of dealing with someone in a spooky alleyway, but his desperate need outweighs sensibility.

Huldi leaves the car running and shifts it into park. “Stay here,” he instructs Albus, unlocking his door.

“No fucking way. You’re not going out there alone – are you bloody insane?” Albus protests.

“You’re staying in the car _,_ ” Huldi asserts firmly, still not raising his voice. He reaches over Albus to open the glove box and pulls out something heavy and black.

Albus’ jaw drops when he realizes what it is. He’s been exposed to enough German muggle television in the past month to know a gun when he sees one. “Is that really necessary? And if so, I’m sorry, but I think we should reevaluate our priorities.”

“It’s just a precaution.” Calmly and casually, Huldi manipulates something on the gun that makes a mechanical click, checks that the gun is loaded, snaps it back into place, and pecks Albus on the lips. “I’m going to take care of you, my love. No worries.” He flashes Albus a confident little smirk, which makes Albus feel marginally better about this whole highly questionable outing.

Albus can’t decide whether he’s terrified or aroused by the fact that Huldi is wielding a Glock like a seasoned gangster. Albus settles on both as he watches Huldi exit the car, stuff a wad of cash in his jacket, wedge the gun into the back of his tight jeans, and strut down the alley into the grimy darkness.

When he returns, triumphant and unscathed, smiling that deliciously deviant grin of his, Albus decides that, yes – Huldi is both scrumptiously sexy and terrifying, and he’s not complaining. His sugar daddy has delivered.

“This is what we call _jagd auf den drachen_. Chasing the dragon.” Huldi holds up a small plastic bag of something that looks like brown sugar.

“What happens when you _catch_ the dragon?” Albus asks, his curiosity piqued, his need reaching a perilous level of desperation.

“You’ll see,” Huldi replies with a smirk.

 

~//~

 

The crime dramas on German television lie. It takes him another month of living in Berlin with Huldi, but Albus knows this now.

There is nothing sexy about guns. There is nothing beautiful about heroin. There is nothing glamorous about addiction. The dragon that Albus chases can never be caught. But he will never stop trying. He _can’t_ stop trying to reach Heaven, getting closer and closer until he burns. He is physically unable to quiet his nerves and his psyche without the sedative, opioid warmth in his veins. Because when he’s sober, he thinks of Scorpius, and when he thinks of Scorpius, it is a pain worse than withdrawal.

Albus can’t live like this. It simply isn’t _living_ at all. It is merely existing from one high to the next, bridging the cavernous hole in his heart. And no matter what Huldi does, he can never fill the interim with anything that resembles life, or that feels like love. No amount of deep fucking will make Albus feel less empty in the absence of Scorpius, in the absence of narcotics. No amount of subjugation will make Albus feel free – he will always be chained to his need, enslaved to his guilt, chained to Huldi to get high.

 

Every week, an owl visits the window of the bathroom in Huldi’s flat. Huldi doesn’t see it. But Albus does, even though he doesn’t want to. Magic will always follow him, no matter how far into the muggle world he retreats, no matter how deep inside his own blissed-out head he hides. There will always be owls. 

There will always be a letter from mum and dad, begging Albus to come home. He only opens the letters because maybe this time it will be from Scorpius. Maybe something in his parents’ words will hint that Scorpius misses him or that Scorpius regrets what he’d done. 

It has been two months, and Albus is beginning to wonder if he just wants the owls to stop coming. Maybe it would be better for everyone if Albus just stays gone.

Huldi wasn’t joking when he had told Albus that he could make him disappear. But even this level of being _nothing_ isn’t enough for Albus. He’d rather not exist anymore if it means living in a world without Scorpius.

  

Huldi comes home one night and finds Albus passed out on the floor, face down in a pool of his own vomit.

“You stupid, stupid boy,” he hears Huldi muttering, unfeeling and devoid of any regret.

Albus wonders if he’s dead and listening from the great beyond. But he’s not so lucky.

Albus thought he’d been in Hell before. But being a stereotypical rock star junkie is nothing compared to the Hell that is yet to come.

 

 

~//~

 

Getting clean was Huldi’s idea.

But it was never about being free from chemical dependence. It was always about Albus staying entirely dependent on Huldi. Because keeping Albus hooked on smack and under his thumb wasn’t enough when escape had been just an overdose away, and that just wouldn’t do.

Huldi needs Albus to be hooked on _him_ and _only_ him. 

Huldi controls every aspect of Albus’ life. It’s for his own good, Huldi insists.   It’s because Albus can’t be trusted not to spend all his money on drugs and shoot himself up to a proper rockstar tragic ending. Besides, Albus can’t speak enough German to get by on his own in a cruel city like Berlin.

Albus must accompany Huldi everywhere. He even makes Albus come to work with him at the clubs, even though it’s not a healthy environment for a recovering addict. Huldi says it’s because he can’t trust that Albus won’t relapse when he isn’t watching. But Albus knows it’s so that Huldi can control him every hour of every day.

Huldi won’t let Albus communicate with his band or his manager. He says they’re all leeching off his success. He says they’ll just leak all of his secrets to the press for their own financial gain. Huldi has been so careful to shield Albus from the paparazzi and the press, going as far as making Albus bleach his hair and wear fake glasses so as not to be recognized when out in public.

When Albus looks at the despondent blond boy in the mirror, he wonders if Scorpius is just as broken and empty. He doubts it, and it makes him bitter.

 

~//~

 

It’s been an age since Albus left home. He has been living, if you can call it that, with Huldi for five, long, agonizing months.

He wakes up alone in the bed one day and decides it all needs to stop.

He knows this, because he should feel relieved that he has a moment to himself while Huldi is in the shower. But he feels a twitch in his nerves, an itch in his veins, an inescapable feeling that he needs to be doing something at that very moment but he isn’t sure what. He can’t be apart from Huldi without feeling something akin to withdrawal symptoms. And that is a terribly alarming revelation.

From the outside, it would seem romantic – That Albus is so in love with Huldi that he can’t spend a second away from him. But this is not romance. This is not love. This is dependency.

This is nothing like the addiction that Albus felt for Scorpius – the constant need to feel the rush of Scorpius’ love, the thrill of his touch, the elation that their togetherness would bring.

Right now, Albus is dependent upon Huldi’s control, to his suffocating grasp, to his pain. Huldi has made it so that Albus can no longer function without Huldi telling him precisely how to function.

  

Albus stumbles out of bed and shuffles to the bathroom. He hears the hiss of the shower and knocks on the door. Huldi permits him to enter and Albus relieves himself in the toilet. Just as Albus is about to go back to bed, Huldi stops him.

“Come here,” Huldi says, peeking his head out of the shower. It’s not seductive. It’s not playful. It’s a command that must be obeyed.

“Yes, sir,” Albus mumbles. He mechanically sheds his clothes and joins Huldi in the shower stall.

He closes his eyes as the hot water soothes his battered muscles, though the chlorine stings the long, red stripes that had been painted across Albus’ back with Huldi’s leather flogger. Huldi folds himself around Albus from behind and kisses the back of his neck. Albus leans into the kiss, eager for a connection.

“How are you feeling today, my love?” Huldi asks softly, and Albus could almost be fooled into believing that he really cares.

“Like rubbish, to be honest,” Albus admits.

“I’m going to take care of you. Tell me what you need,” Huldi asks, even though he already knows.

Albus shudders, feeling cold even though the water should feel blissfully warm. He murmurs, overcome with loneliness and despair, “I need you to love me.” He begins to sob quietly as Huldi’s arms fold around him.

“I love you more than anyone will ever love you,” Huldi says, whispering hotly against Albus’ neck. Albus knows it isn’t true.

He whimpers, shaking in Huldi’s arms, “I need you.”

“I’m here,” Huldi says, embracing him so lovingly that Albus can almost forgive what he does next.

Albus’ face smacks hard into the tile, propelled by Huldi’s hand on the back of his head. “I need you,” Albus repeats, more desperately this time.

But this time, like every time, his words are not meant for Huldi.

Huldi takes Albus with brutal force, without preparation or lubrication, without love, without real human connection. Albus shuts his eyes to the horror of his reality, to the nightmare that has become his life, to the whole world. Behind his closed eyelids, he sees a broken blond boy that isn’t the one in the mirror.

 

_I need you, Scorpius. I need you._

 

~//~

 

_Dearest Albie,_

_Every day that you’re gone breaks my heart. Every day I don’t hear from you makes me sick with worry._

_I know you’re out there. The owl always comes back in a day, empty-handed._

_I can’t keep doing this, begging you to come home, beating myself up for not being there for you. I will tell you for the last time what I have been telling you all along: I am on your side. I know you are hurting. I will be here for you. Just, please, come home. I’m done with the owls, but I’ve not given up on you. I will never give up._

_I promised your dad I wouldn’t pull this card, but I’m apparently more ruthless than he thinks: I fear that the next owl you receive will not be from me, but from Scorpius – and it won’t be pleasant news. I spoke to Astoria the other day. Scorpius has been seeing a lawyer about drafting divorce papers. It is just my opinion, but I don’t think he’s really keen on divorcing from you. I am fairly certain that his mother is urging him to do it. Don’t make him go there, Al. Come home._

_Love always,_

_Mum_

 

~//~

 

_Mum,_

_I want to come home. But I don’t know the way._

_Albie_

~//~

 

“It’ll just be a week,” Albus reminds him.

Huldi responds, still bitter and unconvinced. “Mm hm.”

He must know that Albus is lying. He continues driving in silence through the rainy night. The absence of conversation is worse than an argument. Nothing is more terrifying than Huldi when he’s quiet.

“I miss my parents,” Albus mumbles. It’s not entirely a lie, just a convenient excuse to get away. An escape attempt disguised as a round trip ticket to London.

Huldi doesn’t say anything.

He’s already told Albus that he doesn’t believe his parents miss him – that if they really did miss Albus, they would have phoned. Like everything else in Albus’ life, Huldi monitors his mobile phone activity and knows Albus’ parents never call or text. Of course, Albus can’t tell him about the countless owls. And Huldi will never tell Albus about all the text messages from Scorpius that he deletes off Albus’ mobile before he can see them.

“I’ll ring you every day,” Albus assures him. Another lie.

More silence.

The thrum of the engine roars. Huldi’s BMW speeds down the highway in the steady rain, hurtling around tight curves. But he isn’t driving recklessly in an attempt to get Albus to the airport on time for his flight.

Huldi must suspect that Albus is leaving him. 

Albus puts a hand on Huldi’s thigh and squeezes it. “Slow down, baby.”

Huldi shifts gears and goes faster.

Albus hazards to take off his seat belt and leans close to Huldi, whispering into his ear, stroking along his thigh with a sweaty palm, faking seduction like his life depends on it, because it does. “Baby, if you slow down, I’ll give you a blow job. Don’t you want me to make you come one last time before I leave? To hold you over while I’m gone?”

Huldi snorts derisively and downshifts. The car slows, and Albus releases his white-knuckle grip on Huldi’s thigh. Huldi shifts again, slows down to a near halt, and swerves onto the shoulder of the road.

“You don’t have to stop. I can suck you off while you’re driving,” Albus offers with a playful giggle that’s entirely too manic to be genuine, “I’ve done it before, yeah?”

Huldi stops the car on the side of the road and shifts it into park. Albus tenses. He knows this isn’t about oral sex. Huldi grips the steering wheel hard and stares out the windshield, his jaw tight and his eyes cold.

“You’re not coming back. Stop playing with me. I’m not stupid, Albus,” Huldi says, never raising his voice, but visibly angry.

Albus is quiet and listens to the low hum of the idle engine to keep from focusing too hard on the nervous pounding of his heart.

“You’re spineless. If you’re going to leave me, then fucking do it and tell me up front. I deserve better than this. After all I’ve done for you. I’ve taken care of you. I deserve _better_.”

Albus admits, frightened of what Huldi’s reaction will be, stuttering, “I-I-I know you do. You deserve better, and that’s why I have to leave. I’m no good for you.”

“Lies,” Huldi hisses. “Try again. Less lying this time. Come on. Do it,” Huldi provokes, “Leave me.”

Albus huffs, “Fine. I’m leaving you. You don’t really love me. You hurt me. And I can’t live this way anymore.”

Huldi releases the steering wheel, slowly turns to face Albus, and glares. “I said, less lying.”

Exasperated, Albus scoffs, “That was the most truth I’ve spoken all night.”

“You know I fucking love you.” Huldi’s anger starts to come through in his voice, which for him, is a frightening thing. Because it means Huldi is beginning to lose control. And when Huldi loses control, he is completely unpredictable. “You know I never hurt you and you fucking _know_ you can not live without me.”

Albus gapes at him in utter disbelief. “How can you say that you never hurt me when I have the scars on my back to prove it?”

“Not without your consent, and not without reason,” Huldi justifies. 

“ _That_ is a lie,” Albus insists.

Huldi turns off the car and actually breaks down and cries, real tears.

It is almost convincing, but Albus knows that Huldi would say and do anything to keep Albus under his control.

Huldi pleads with him, pathetically sobbing, “Albie, I’m sorry. The truth is I can’t live without you. I love you so much.” He reaches out for Albus and holds his face in his hands. “I’m so sorry I hurt you, my love. It was the only way I knew how to make you stay. I promise I won’t ever hurt you again if you’ll just stay. Please.”

Albus is completely unaffected by this rouse. They’ve been here before.

Coldly, he says, “You also promised to take care of me, and look how that turned out.”

“I got you clean,” Huldi points out, “You’re sober now, thanks to me.”

“You got me addicted to bloody _heroin_ in the first place, like some rock star cliché!” Albus says indignantly, truly appalled by Huldi’s selective memory.

Huldi stops. He covers his face with his hands and takes a deep, cleansing breath.

Now calm, he speaks evenly. “I’m an enabler. I admit. It’s only because I love you. And if you need to leave for a week or two or even three to realize that you belong with me, then so be it. Go. I’m quite certain that Scorpius will betray you again and your ineffectual parents will just turn their backs on you.”

Albus also finds himself calming down. Maybe Huldi really has found reason.

But that notion quickly goes out the window when Huldi unlocks the door.

“In fact, go now. Leave. Call an _Uber_. You didn’t have the decency to break up with me, then I’m not going to drive you to the airport.”

Albus stares at him incredulously. “What?”

“Get the fuck out of my car, Albus,” Huldi says, still with a fairly even keel, before starting the engine.

Albus continues to glare at him while he opens the door and steps out into the rain. Huldi doesn’t even look at him when Albus grabs his bag from behind the passenger seat and mutters resentfully, “You never loved me.” 

“Have a good flight,” Huldi answers emotionlessly, staring blankly through the windshield.

Albus slams the door, shoulders his bag, and starts off down the side of the road. He knows it is foolish to walk, especially in the rain, but he’s too upset to find his mobile in his bag to call for a ride. The headlights of Huldi’s car illuminate his way forward down the wet pavement.

When he walks out of the light and into the darkness, he starts to doubt that Huldi is actually going to leave him on the roadside. He won’t give Huldi the satisfaction of looking back, but he can tell from the stillness of the headlights and the quiet rumble of the idle engine that the car hasn’t moved.

He walks on against the rain, more determined.

_I won’t go back. I’ll never go back. I won’t let him manipulate me._

“Albus, I love you. Don’t go,” Huldi calls out.

_Don’t look back. Never look back._

Albus hears footsteps crunching on the loose gravel on the pavement.

“I’m sorry. I was angry. Get back in the car. Please,” Huldi’s voice grows closer.

_Don’t turn around._

“You don’t have to talk to me. Just let me drive you. It’s raining, for fuck’s sake.”

_He will never let me leave again. Keep walking._

“Albus, please don’t leave,” Huldi cries, his voice just a few steps behind. He sounds broken and defeated, and Albus almost wants to turn around, just to be certain that Huldi is indeed crying. “I’m sorry. I promise I’ll be different. I’ll be better if you stay. Please.” He’s never heard Huldi sound so desperate before, so vulnerable.

_He is manipulating me. Keep walking._

Albus’ feet pound the pavement with determination as the rain falls harder. He brushes his wet hair out of his face and charges on down the road, the sound of the idle BMW growing more faint as the sound of Huldi’s footsteps grow closer.

Soon, the only sounds he hears are those of the rain and two sets of feet hitting the road with a swift rhythm. Huldi becomes silent as he continues his pursuit.

And then Albus has a sudden, terrifying realization.

When Huldi is quiet, he’s dangerous.

Albus freezes and begins to panic. He closes his eyes to the rain and listens to the sound of Huldi’s approach, grasping the shoulder strap of his rucksack in his wet grasp.

There is a soft, mechanical click. It would have been missed, had Albus not been listening hard for it.

“Get back in the car, Albus,” Huldi says firmly and quietly, devoid of any of the distraught emotion he had feigned just moments ago.

Albus whirls around quickly and swings his heavy bag at Huldi’s outstretched arm, knocking the gun out of his hand. The weapon goes flying into the grass on the side of the road. Both Albus and Huldi scramble after it. Albus searches frantically in the wet glade, his heart beating out of his chest, his pupils blowing out in fear and blur with rain.  He thoroughly regrets hiding his wand so well in a box deep within his bag.

Huldi lands hard on Albus’ back and knocks the breath out of his lungs. They wrestle for control, wet fingers clawing desperately at rain slicked skin, feral sounds forced through gnashed teeth – they could almost be mistaken for impatient lovers rolling lustfully in the grass.

Albus, slippery from the rain, manages to slide out from Huldi’s grasp and crawls away, only to be thwacked hard in the back of the head with what Albus suspects is the butt of the recovered gun. Albus starts to see stars that have nothing to do with the heavens. He shakes his head, fighting to keep conscious, resisting the irresistible pull of the darkness that falls slowly like a curtain.

“Look at me,” Huldi commands, before connecting the bottom of his boot with Albus’ shoulder, effectively flipping Albus onto his back.

Albus anxiously blinks the rain away to find Huldi’s wild, furious eyes staring down at him, his face cast in a shadow from overhanging fringe dripping with rain, his gun pointed intently at Albus’ head.

“You are nothing. You are _nothing_!” Huldi growls.

Albus resigns himself to the inevitable. How could he have hoped it would end any other way?

 

_How close am I to Heaven, right now?_

This is the thought that passes through his mind in the span of two heartbeats that threaten to burst out of his heaving chest.

But there is no Heaven for Albus.

His eyelids fall, bringing absolute darkness. He is plummeting to Hell.

 

But there is a memory – a spark in the blackness – the remembrance of comforting human chaos, the recollection of warmth and openness, the familiar sound of animated chatter. And, _oh gods_ , does Albus want it. He wants to go back to that time and place, but he’s not sure if his memory is sufficient enough to get him there.

_I want to come home. But I don’t know the way._

All he has to do is let go.

Let the darkness close around him and crush him. Disregard the uncertainty of what will be on the other side.

And just let go.

 

There is a deafening crack, too quick and close to be thunder, too uniform in timbre to be magic. The sound becomes an all-encompassing ringing in Albus’ ears. And as the sound grows distant, only then does Albus realize that he _has_ let go.

The darkness is suffocating. Panic takes hold. It’s too tight and he can’t breathe.

 

But then the tightness diminishes.

And then the scorching, searing pain begins.

 

_I am in Hell… There is no Heaven for me… I am in Hell…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, that's a cliff hanger. Yes, I'm an arsehole. Speculate in the comments if you'd like. You'll have your answer in chapter 18. No, that's not a typo. I do mean chapter 18. :D


	16. Cover Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own these photos and I made what I guess is called a digital "manip". The models in the photos have long been used as the face claims for the RP characters that Colorfulstabwound and I have been playing for years. In case you're wondering, they are as follows from left to right, top to bottom:
> 
> Scorpius (Blu Equis), Albus (Jacob Young), James (Jake Cooper White), Teddy (Tom Webb).
> 
> If you're wondering about when the next chapter will be up, my goal is by March 2018. If you want to keep up to date with what I'm doing or what I'm writing about, you can follow me on twitter (dandytaylorsux) or tumblr (dandytaylorsucks).
> 
> Yes, you can tell me how much I suck in the comments of this non-chapter. ;D


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